The Smell of the Night

by Andrea Camilleri

  There were about thirty people in front of the King Midas office, heatedly talking and wildly gesticulating, and kept at bay by three municipal policemen. Recognizing the inspector, they surrounded him.

  “Is it true there’s a man with a gun inside?”

  “Who is he? Who is he?”

  He forced his way through the crowd, shoving and yelling, and finally reached the entrance to the building. But here he stopped, slightly bewildered. Inside he saw, recognizing them from behind, Mimi Augello, Fazio, and Galluzzo, who looked as if they were involved in some strange kind of ballet: first bending their upper bodies to the right, then to the left, then taking one step forward, one step back. He opened the glass outer door without a sound and got a better look at the scene. The office consisted of a single, spacious room divided in two by a wooden counter with a sheet of glass and a teller’s window on top. Beyond this partition were four empty desks.

  Mariastella Cosentino was sitting at her usual place behind the teller’s window, very pale, but calm and composed. One came and went between the two sections of the office through a small wooden door in the partition itself.

  The assailant, or whatever he was—Montalbano didn’t know how to define him—was standing right in the little doorway between the two sections, so that he could keep his gun trained simultaneously on Mariastella and the three policemen. He was an old man of about eighty whom the inspector recognized at once, a respected land surveyor named Salvatore Garzullo. Partly because of nervous tension, partly because of fairly advanced Parkinson’s, the pistol—which dated surely back to the days of Buffalo Bill and the Sioux—was shaking so badly in the old man’s hands that whenever he aimed it at one of the inspector’s men, they all took fright because they couldn’t tell where an eventual shot might end up.

  “I want back the money that son of a bitch stole from me, or I’m going to kill the lady!”

  The land surveyor had been yelling this same demand without variation for over an hour, and by now he was getting worn out and hoarse. More than speaking, he seemed to be making gargling sounds.

  Montalbano took three resolute steps, walked past the line formed by his men, and held out his hand to the old man, a smile beaming across his face.

  “Dear Mr. Garzullo, what a pleasure to see you! How are you?”

  “I’m doing all right, thanks,” said Garzullo, confused.

  But he recovered himself immediately when he saw Montalbano about to take another step towards him.

  “Stay where you are or I’ll shoot!”

  “For heaven’s sake, Inspector, be careful!” Miss Cosentino said in a steady voice. “If someone has to be sacrificed for Mr. Gargano, let it be me. I’m ready!”

  Instead of bursting out laughing at the melodrama of these lines, Montalbano felt enraged. If he could have had Gargano in his hands at that moment, he would have slapped his face to a bloody pulp.

  “Let’s not be foolish! Nobody here is going to be sacrificed!”

  Then, turning back to the land surveyor, he began his improvisation.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Garzullo, but where were you yesterday evening?”

  “What the hell is it to you?” the old man retorted combatively.

  “For your own good, answer me.”

  The old man pursed his lips, then finally decided to open his mouth.

  “I’d just got back home. I was four months in Palermo hospital, and that was where they told me Gargano ran off with my money. Everything I had, after a life of hard work!”

  “So yesterday evening you did not turn on the television?”

  “I didn’t wanna hear any of that bullshit.”

  “So that’s why you don’t know!” said Montalbano, triumphant.

  “What is it I’m supposed to know?” asked Garzullo, dumbfounded.

  “Ragioniere Gargano’s been arrested.”

  The inspector looked out of the corner of his eye at Mariastella. He was expecting a scream, or any reaction at all; but the woman remained immobile, looking more confused than convinced.

  “Really?” said the old man.

  “Word of honor,” said Montalbano, in a superb performance. “They arrested him and confiscated twelve big suitcases stuffed full of money. They’re going to start giving the money back to its rightful owners this very morning in Montelusa, at the Prefecture. Do you have the receipt for the amount you gave to Gargano?”

  “I sure do!” said the old man, tapping with his free hand against his jacket pocket, where he kept his wallet.

  “So there’s no problem, it’s all been settled,” said Montalbano.

  He walked up to the old man, took the pistol out of his hand, and set it down on the counter.

  “Think I could go to the Prefecture tomorrow?” Garzullo asked. “I’m not feeling so well.”

  He would have collapsed onto the floor if the inspector hadn’t been ready to catch him.

  “Fazio and Galluzzo, quick, put him in the car and take him to the hospital.”

  The two policemen picked up the old man, who, as he was being carried past Montalbano, managed to say: “Thanks for everything.”

  “Not at all, you’re very welcome,” said Montalbano, feeling like the biggest heel in the world.

  2

  Mimi meanwhile had rushed over to help Miss Mariastella, who, though she remained seated, had started swaying in place like a tree in a windstorm.

  “Want me to get you anything from the café?”

  “A glass of water, thank you.”

  At that moment they heard a burst of applause from outside, accompanied by shouts of “Bravo! Long live old man Garzullo!” Apparently many of the people in the crowd had been swindled by Gargano.

  “But why do they hate him so much?” the woman asked as Mimi was leaving.

  She was wringing her hands and had now turned, in reaction, from pale to tomato-red.

  “Well, they’ve probably got their reasons,” the inspector replied diplomatically. “You know better than I that the ragioniere has disappeared.”

  “Of course, but why must people immediately think the worst? He might have lost his memory in a car accident, or after a fall, I don’t know ... I even took the liberty of telephoning ...”

  She broke off, shaking her head disconsolately.

  “Never mind,” she said, concluding her thought.

  “Tell me who it was you called.”

  “Do you watch television?”

  “Sometimes. Why?”

  “I’d heard there was a program called Anybody Seen ‘Em?, which is about missing persons. So I got their telephone number and—”

  “I get the picture. What did they tell you?”

  “They said they couldn’t do anything, since I was unable to give them the necessary information, age, place of disappearance, photographs, that sort of thing.”

  Silence fell. Mariastella’s hands had become a single, inextricable knot. Montalbano’s accursed police instincts, which had been dozing off, suddenly popped awake for no apparent reason.

  “You, signorina, must also take into account the fact that a lot of money disappeared with Mr. Gargano. We’re talking about billions and billions of lire, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And you haven’t the slightest idea where—”

  “I only know that he invested that money. Where and in what he invested it, I can’t say.”

  “And you and he.... ?”

  Mariastella’s face became a blaze of fire.

  “What.... what do you mean?”

  “Has he contacted you in any way since his disappearance?”

  “If he had, I would have mentioned it to Inspector Augello, when he questioned me. But I’ll repeat to you what I said to your assistant: Emanuele Gargano has only one goal in life, and that is to make others happy.”

  “I have no problem believing that,” said Montalbano.

  And he meant it. He was convinced that ragioniere Gargano was making some high-class pro
stitutes, nightclub owners, casino managers, and luxury-car dealers very happy on some lost Polynesian island.

  Mimi Augello returned with a bottle of mineral water, a few paper cups, and his cell phone glued to his ear.

  “Yessir, yessir, I’ll put him on right away.”

  He handed the contraption to the inspector.

  “It’s for you. The commissioner.”

  What a pain in the ass! Relations between Montalbano and Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi could hardly be said to be characterized by mutual esteem and sympathy. If he was calling the inspector, it meant there was some unpleasant matter to discuss. And Montalbano, at that moment, had no desire for any such thing.

  “At your service, Mr. Commissioner.”

  “Come here immediately.”

  “Give me an hour at the most, and I’ll—”

  “Montalbano, you may be Sicilian, but surely you studied Italian at school? Don’t you know the meaning of the adverb ‘immediately’?”

  “Just a second, I’ll need to think that over. Ah, yes. It means, ‘Without interval of time.’ Am I right, Mr. Commissioner?”

  “Spare me the wit. You have exactly fifteen minutes to get here to Montelusa.”

  He hung up.

  “Mimi, I have to go see the commissioner right away. Grab Garzullo’s pistol and take it in to headquarters. And Miss Cosentino, allow me a word of advice: Close this office right now and go home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because in a very short while, you see, everyone in town will know about Mr. Garzullo’s stroke of genius. And it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that some idiot will repeat the stunt, and that this time it will be somebody younger and more dangerous.”

  “No,” said a resolute Mariastella. “I’m not leaving this place. What if Mr. Gargano were to return? He’d find nobody here.”

  “Imagine the disappointment!” said Montalbano, furious. “And another thing: Do you intend to press charges against Mr. Garzullo?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “So much the better.”

  The road to Montelusa was jammed with traffic, and Montalbano’s dark mood worsened as a result. He was, morever, in a wretched state from all the sand scratching between his socks and skin, collar and neck. At one point, about a hundred yards up the road, on the left and therefore on the opposite side, he saw the “Trucker’s Rest Stop,” where he knew they made first-rate coffee. When he was nearly parallel to the spot, he put on his blinker and turned. A riot, a pandemonium of screeching brakes, blaring horns, shouts, insults, and curses ensued. By some miracle he reached the parking lot in front of the restaurant unscathed, got out of the car, and went inside. The first thing he saw were two people he immediately recognized, even though they had their backs to him. It was Fazio and Galluzzo, each knocking back a glass of cognac, or so, at least, it looked to him. Cognac, at that hour of the morning? He wedged himself in between the two and ordered a coffee from the barman. Recognizing his voice, Fazio and Galluzzo turned around with a start.

  “To your health,” said Montalbano.

  “No ... it’s just that ... ,” Galluzzo began, trying to justify himself.

  “We were feeling a little upset,” said Fazio.

  “And we needed something strong,” Galluzzo added.

  “Upset? Why?”

  “Poor Mr. Garzullo died! He had a heart attack,” said Fazio. “By the time we got to the hospital he was unconscious. We called the attendants and they rushed him inside. After we parked the car we went straight back in, and they told us....”

  “It shook us up,” said Galluzzo.

  “I feel a little shook up myself ... ,” Montalbano admitted. “Listen, I want you to do something. Find out if he had any relatives and, if not, track down some close friend and report to me after I get back from Montelusa.”

  Fazio and Galluzzo said good-bye and left. Montalbano drank his coffee calmly, then he remembered that the Trucker’s Rest Stop was also known for selling a tumazzo goat cheese which was supposed to be delicious, although nobody knew who made it. He immediately wanted some and went over to that part of the counter where, along with the tumazzo, there was a variety of sausages and salami on display. The inspector was tempted to drop a lot of money, but managed to control himself and bought only a small round of goat cheese.

  When it came time to pull out from the parking lot and onto the road, he realized this would be no easy feat. The line of trucks and cars was packed tight, with no openings in sight. After waiting five minutes, he, saw daylight and joined the procession. All the while he was driving, a thought kept trying to form in his mind, but he was unable to give it any shape, and this bothered him. And thus, without even noticing, he found himself back in Vigàta.

  What now? Take the road back to Montelusa and show up at the commissioner’s late? With nothing more to lose, he decided he might as well go home to Marinella, take a shower, change into some better clothes, and, all clean and fresh, face the commissioner with a clear head. As the water streamed over him, the thought came into focus.

  Half an hour later, he pulled up in front of headquarters, got out of his car, and went inside. The moment he entered, he was deafened by Catarella’s shouting; actually, more than shouting, it was something between barking and whinnying.

  “Aaaahhhh, Chief, Chief, Chief! You’re here? Here?”

  “Yes, Cat, I’m here. What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong is that his honor the c’mishner is making like a pack of demons, Chief! He called here five times! Each time madder than the last!”

  “Tell him to relax.”

  “I couldn’t talk to his honor the c‘mishner like that! Never in a million years! That’d be a terrible act of disrespeck! Whaddo I tell ’im if he calls again?”

  “Tell him I’m not here.”

  “Nossirree, I won‘t! I can’t be telling lies to his honor the c’mishner!”

  “Then let him talk to Inspector Augello.”

  He opened the door to Mimi’s office.

  “What’d the commissioner want?” asked Mimi.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t been to see him yet.”

  “Jesus Christ! And who’s gonna deal with him now?”

  “You are. You’re going to call him and tell him that as I was rushing to see him, I was driving too fast and went off the road. Nothing serious, just three stitches on my forehead. Tell him I’m feeling better now, and that I’ll fulfill my obligation this afternoon. Fill his ears with chatter. Then come and see me.”

  He went into his office and was immediately followed by Fazio.

  “I wanted to tell you we found Garzullo’s grand-daughter.”

  “Well done. How’d you do it?”

  “We didn’t have to do anything, Chief. She came forward on her own. She was worried because he wasn’t home when she went to see him this morning. She waited a bit, then decided to come here. I had to give her the triple bad news.”

  “Triple?”

  “Come on, Inspector. First: she didn’t know her grandfather had lost all his savings to Gargano; second: she didn’t know her grandfather had started acting out scenes from gangster movies; and third: she didn’t know her grandfather was dead.”

  “How did the poor thing take it?”

  “Badly. Especially when she found out he’d let somebody piss away all the money he’d saved, which was supposed to go to her when he died.”

  Fazio went out and Augello came in, wiping his neck with a handkerchief.

  “He sure made me sweat, that commissioner! In the end he told me to tell you that unless you’re on the very brink of death, he’ll be expecting you this afternoon.”

  “Sit down, Mimi, and give me the lowdown on ragioniere Gargano.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. What’s the matter, you in a hurry?”

  “No, it’s just that the story’s sort of complicated.”

  “Make it nice and simple for me.”

  “All right. But I
can really only tell you the half of it, because we’ve only been dealing with the part that falls under our authority. Those were the commissioner’s orders. The meat of the case has been handled by Inspector Guarnotta, the fraud specialist.”

  Looking each other in the eye, they couldn’t help but burst out laughing. It was well known that, two years earlier, Amelio Guarnotta had let himself be persuaded into buying many shares in a company that was going to turn the Colosseum, after its privatization, into a luxury apartment complex.

  “Anyway, Emanuele Gargano was born in February of 1960 in Fiacca and got his accounting degree in Milan.”

  “Why Milan? Had his family moved there?”

  “No, his family moved to heaven in a car crash. And since he was an only child, he was adopted, in a manner of speaking, by his father’s brother, a bachelor and bank manager. Once Gargano received his degree, his uncle got him a job at the same bank. About ten years later, after his protector passed away and left him alone in the world, he went to work for an investment firm and showed a great deal of promise. Three years ago he quit the firm and opened King Midas Associates in Bologna, with himself as the sole proprietor. And this is where things start to get weird. Or at least that’s what I’m told, since this part doesn’t come under our authority.”