“What about Grazia?”
“You two’ll have to go and arrest her yourselves. I don’t want to get my hands dirty.”
Montalbano was right on the money. Fonzio Aricò arrived at half-past midnight. The house was all dark, the door opened, Fonzio went in, and the door closed. After an hour of waiting, Montalbano, Fazio, and Gallo were beginning to get cold and started cursing. They couldn’t even warm themselves up with a cigarette. At ten past three in the morning, the first to notice that the door had opened and a shadow had come out was the inspector. Fonzio headed for his car, which he had left on the main road. He was carrying a package in his hand. When he went to open the car door, Fazio and Gallo jumped on him, threw him to the ground, and handcuffed him. It all happened without any noise. In Fonzio’s pocket was a revolver, which Fazio took and handed to Montalbano.
“You know that you’re fucked now, with this?” the inspector asked him.
Aricò smiled unexpectedly.
“Of course I know,” he said.
Inside the cardboard box was eight hundred million lire in bills of varying size. Fonzio Aricò was a good gambler who understood when he’d lost a game, and didn’t even try to claim that the money was his.
In the car he spoke only once.
“For what it’s worth, Inspector, I wasn’t really the one who set this whole thing up. It was that nasty little bitch.”
Montalbano didn’t have much trouble believing him. He had Gallo drop him off at the station, then got in his car and drove home to Marinella.
An hour later, the telephone rang. It was Fazio.
“We’ve arrested the girl,” he said.
“What was she doing?”
“What do you expect? She was sleeping like an angel.”
The following week, the whole department was busy consoling Galluzzo, who had grown fond of Grazia and didn’t want to believe the whole story. Indeed every five minutes he would poke his head into Montalbano’s office, a sorrowful expression on his face, and ask:
“Can it really be true, Inspector?”
After an hour of this, Montalbano couldn’t take it anymore and got up, stepped out, and went to see Mimì Augello, who’d had a relapse.
“How can this be, Mimì? Before, you never used to even catch cold, and now you get every bug that’s in circulation!”
“I can’t explain it, Salvo.”
“Want me to explain it for you? It’s psychosomatic.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s the fact that you’re going to get married soon, and so you come down with every illness imaginable to try and postpone your wedding day for as long as you can.”
“Oh, cut the crap! Tell me instead about the murder of that loan shark—what was his name?—oh, yeah, Piccolo.”
So Montalbano told him. And he also told him about the strange thing that happened to him when Grazia appeared on TV and she’d looked to him like an exceptionally beautiful girl, which in reality she wasn’t.
“Well,” said Mimì, “apparently the video camera revealed Grazia’s true face to you. Based on your description of her, the girl seems like a real devil. And people who know about these things are always talking about the devil’s beauty.”
Montalbano didn’t believe in the devil, let alone clichés, commonplaces, or truisms. But this time he didn’t object.
CATARELLA SOLVES A CASE
“How did I get into this?” Montalbano asked himself as he got out of the car and looked around. It was six a.m. and the morning was shaping up to be clear and pleasant. After a half hour’s drive on the road to Fela and another fifteen minutes on an impassible dirt track, he still had another fifteen minutes to go, at the very least—but all on foot, because the track had turned into a little trail negotiable only by goats. He looked up. At the top of the hill he wanted to reach, the old bunker wasn’t visible, hidden as it was amidst clumps of wild plants. He cursed the saints, took a deep breath as if about to dive underwater, and began to climb.
An hour and a half earlier, he’d been awakened by the telephone.
“Hullo, Chief? Izzatchoo poissonally in poisson?”
“Yeah, Cat.”
“What wuz ya doin’, Chief, sleepin’?”
“Until a moment ago, yes, I was sleeping.”
“An’ now y’ain’t sleepin’ no mores?”
“No, I’m not sleeping anymore, Cat.”
“Ah, good.”
“Why is that good, Cat?”
“Cuzzit means I dint wake yiz up, Chief.”
Either shoot him in the face at the first opportunity, or pretend it’s nothing.
“Cat, if you don’t mind too much, would you please tell me why you’re calling me?”
“Cuz Isspecter Augello’s gotta a cole an’ fever.”
“Cat, what the fuck do I care if Augello is sick at four-thirty in the morning? Don’t call me, call a doctor for him and then call Fazio.”
“Fazio in’t in neither. ’E’s onna stakesout wit’ Gallo ’n’ Galluzzo.”
“All right, Cat, what is it?”
“A shippard called. Sez ’e foun’ a kiddaver.”
“Where?”
“In Passo di Cane districk. From isside an ol’ banker. Do y’rimimmer, Chief, you wint ’ere roundabouts tree years ago to—”
“Yeah, Cat, I know where it is. And it’s called a bunker.”
“Why, wha’d I call it?”
“Banker.”
“Iss the same ting, Chief.”
“Where was this shepherd calling from?”
“Where djy’aspeck ’e’s callin’ from? From the banker, Chief.”
“There’s no telephone there! That place is out in the middle of nowhere.”
“The shippard called from ’is sillphone, Chief.”
He should have known! A few more years and anyone in Italy caught without a cell phone would be subject to immediate arrest.
“All right, Cat, I’ll go there myself. But as soon as anyone gets back to the office, send them to me at the bunker.”
“But ’ow’m I gonna know, Chief?”
“How are you going to know what, Cat?”
“’Ow’m I gonna know ’oo gits back to the affice? I’m ’ere.”
The inspector felt a sudden chill.
“Do you mean to tell me you went to the bunker yourself?”
“Yessir, Chief. Seein’ as how there’s nobody aroun’ . . .”
“Wait for me right there and don’t touch anything, I mean it. By the way, where are you, in fact?”
“I tol’ yiz. I came ousside cuz inside there’s no recession. I’m callin’ wit’ my sillphone.”
“Well, since you’ve got your sillphone, sillphone a call to Pasquano and the prosecutor.”
“Beckin’ yer pardin an’ all, Chief, ya don’ say ‘sillphone a call,’ even if ya gotta sillphone, you jess make a call like wit’ a reggler phone.”
As soon as he spotted the inspector in the distance, Catarella started waving his arms in the air like a castaway on a deserted island who’s just seen a ship on the water.
“O’er ’ere, Chief! O’er ’ere!”
The bunker was built right at the edge of a very steep cliff. Below lay a narrow strip of golden-yellow beach and the sea. Montalbano noticed a car stopped on the beach.
“What’s that car doing there?”
“I c’n tell yiz, Chief.”
“Then tell me.”
“Iss cuz I came ’ere innat car. It b’longs t’me, so iss mine.”
“And how did you get all the way up here?”
“I climed up the rock’s face. I’m better ’n a Alpist.”
Around his neck Catarella was wearing a large battery-powered lamp. For once he’d done something right, as the bunker would certain
ly be completely dark inside. They went down a staircase that had once been made of cement and was now a sort of garbage dump. They found more garbage inside the bunker. By the light of Catarella’s lamp, the inspector walked on a thick layer of shit, plastic bags, cans, bottles, condoms, and syringes. There was even a rusted baby stroller. The dead body lay on its back, the lower half immersed in trash. It was a woman, bare-chested and in jeans half-open over her belly. Rodents and dogs had devastated her face, making her unrecognizable. Montalbano asked for the lamp and had a close look at the body.
“Chief, if ya don’ mind, I’m goin’ ousside,” said Catarella, who could no longer stand the sight.
There were no visible traces of firearm injuries. But the victim might have been strangled or stabbed from behind with a knife. All he could do was wait outside for Dr. Pasquano, since, among other things, the air in there was irrespirable, and the stench seized you by the throat.
“Tink I c’d ’ave a cigarette?” Catarella asked him, looking jaundiced.
They smoked for a while in silence, looking out at the sea.
“What happened to the shepherd?” the inspector asked.
“’E left ’cuz ’e ’adda go an’ take care o’ ’is sheep. But I writ down ’is name an’ addriss.”
“Did he tell you why he’d gone into the bunker in the first place?”
“’E ’adda relief ’isself.”
“I have a vague hunch as to who this poor woman might be,” said Fazio, back from his stakeout of a fugitive, which had come to nothing.
Montalbano had returned to the office after Dr. Pasquano had the body taken away for autopsy. The doctor promised to let him know the results the following day.
“Who do you think she is?”
“Her name is probably Maria Lojacono, wife of a certain Salvatore Piscopo, street vendor by trade.”
The inspector showed clear signs of irritation. Fazio’s mania for people’s personal particulars got on his nerves.
“And how do you know that?”
“Three months ago, the husband reported her missing. I’ve got a photo of her in my office. Wait just a second. I’ll go get it for you.”
Maria Lojacono was a beautiful girl, with an open, smiling face and big dark eyes. She looked to be barely over twenty.
“So when did she disappear?”
“Exactly three months ago today.”
“And did the husband give any personal details?”
“Yessir. This Maria got married when she was just eighteen. Nine months later a little girl was born. She died two months later. A horrible misfortune: choked on her vomit. After that, Maria started to lose her head: said she wanted to kill herself, saying she was responsible for the baby’s death. The husband took her to Montelusa to be treated, but there was nothing to be done. She just got worse and worse. To the point that Piscopo, her husband, didn’t want to leave her alone when he went out on his rounds, so he would take her to her sister, who would look after her. One night the sister went to bed and before falling asleep she heard Maria going into the bathroom. Since she was very tired, she went right to sleep. But when she woke up, around four o’clock in the morning, she had a sort of premonition and got up. Maria’s bed was empty and cold. And the bathroom window was open. Maria had escaped over five hours before. The husband came home in less than an hour and started looking for her nearby. Then he called us and the carabinieri. And there’s been no more news of the girl since then.”
“Did Piscopo describe how his wife was dressed?”
“Yessir. I looked at the report when I went and got the photograph. She was wearing jeans, a red blouse, a black sweater and shoes . . .”
“When we saw her, she wasn’t wearing any bra or black sweater.”
“Ugh.”
“Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Do me a favor. Get a strong flashlight, grab Galluzzo, and both of you go to the bunker. Put on some heavy gloves and be very careful not to hurt your hands. And look around for any articles of clothing that might have belonged to her.”
“As far as you know, was she wearing panties?”
“Yes. You can see them under the half-open jeans.”
Fazio came back about four hours later with a clear plastic bag in his hand. Inside was what must have once been a black sweater.
“Sorry I’m late. But after Galluzzo and I’d been searching around in the shit for over an hour, I felt contaminated, so I went home to wash up and change clothes. All we found was this sweater. It’s black, like the husband said. But it was the sister who’d told him what his wife was wearing.”
“Listen, Fazio. The poor thing, when we found her, was wearing a wedding ring. Take a spin up to Montelusa and ask Pasquano to give it to you. Then take the sweater and ring and show them to this Piscopo. If he recognizes them as hers, bring him here to me.”
Salvatore Piscopo, who looked about forty, immediately seemed to the inspector like a man in the throes of a deep, genuine grief. He was a diminutive man, with a very thin mustache.
“It’s definitely my wife,” he said in a choked voice.
“I’m sorry,” said Montalbano.
“We loved each other. That baby girl who died, innocent thing, she ruined our lives.”
And he could no longer contain his terrible sobs. Montalbano stood up, walked around the desk, sat down beside the man, and squeezed one of his knees.
“Be brave. Would you like a little water?”
Piscopo shook his head to say no. The inspector waited for him to regain control of himself.
“Listen, Mr. Piscopo. When you found out that your wife was missing, what was the first place you looked for her?”
Despite his pain and bewilderment, the man looked the inspector straight in the eye.
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Because I can see that your grief is sincere, Mr. Piscopo. Exactly three months to the day have passed since your wife disappeared. Were you hoping all this time that your wife was alive? And, if so, where did you think she’d gone to hide? With a relative? A girlfriend? That’s why I’m asking you.”
“No, Inspector, already by the day after her disappearance, I was convinced I would never see her alive again.”
“Why?”
“Because she didn’t have any family or friends, or even acquaintances. She had no place to go. There was only her sister. And if you can see the state I’m in, Inspector, it’s because it’s one thing to imagine the worst, and it’s another thing to know the worst has happened.”
“How come your wife didn’t have any friends?”
“Well, to start, they were orphans, she and her sister Concetta, who’s four years older and quickly got married. I lived near them and had known them since they were little girls. There was a twenty-year difference between me and Maria. But that didn’t matter. After we got married, she didn’t have any chance to form new friendships. You know what happened to us.”
“So where did you go to look for your wife?”
“I dunno . . . I looked all around the house outside . . . asked the neighbors if they’d seen her . . . Among other things, it was cold and raining that night. On top of that, it was late and there was nobody out on the streets anymore. Nobody could tell me anything. So first I went to the carabinieri, then I came here. I started looking in the hospitals of Vigàta, Montelusa, and towns nearby, in the monasteries, convents, charitable organizations, churches . . . Nothing.”
“Was your wife religious?”
“She only went to Mass on Sundays. But she never confessed or took Communion. She didn’t trust anyone, not even priests.”
Then, with visible effort, and in a low voice, he forced himself to ask the inspector a question.
“Did she kill herself? Or did she freeze to death? There was a frost three months ago . . .”
Mo
ntalbano threw up his hands.
“No, she didn’t freeze to death or die of hardship,” said Dr. Pasquano. “Somebody killed her. Or else she killed herself.”
“How?” Montalbano asked.
“Common rat poison. I talked with the doctor whose patient she was, here in Montelusa. She suffered from terrible bouts of depression and tried many times to take her own life, in a variety of ways.”
“So suicide would be the most plausible scenario?”
“Not necessarily. Only apparently the most plausible, as you call it.”
“Why only apparently?”
“Because I found . . . Look, Montalbano, I know I’m right: She’d been tied up with rope around the wrists and ankles.”
The inspector thought about this for a minute.
“It’s possible that someone in the family—I dunno, maybe the husband or her sister—tied her up when they had to leave her alone, just to prevent her from killing herself or hurting others. They used to use straitjackets in insane asylums for the same purpose, no?”
“I don’t know whether or not it was for her own good that she was tied up. That’s for you to investigate. I’m only telling you what I found.”
“All right, Doctor, thanks,” said Montalbano, standing up.
“I haven’t finished.”
Montalbano sat back down. His coroner didn’t exactly have the most cordial relationship with humanity, and if on a sudden whim he decided to stop talking, the inspector would have to wait forever for the written report.
“There’s something suspicious.”
The inspector held his breath.
“When did you say she disappeared from her sister’s place?”
Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 31