The Smell of the Night

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Where’d you hear that bullshit?”

  “From you, Doctor, just now. Until proved to the contrary, the place where Gargano’s car was found is on my territory.”

  “Yes, but the investigation’s not yours! It belongs to that genius Guarnotta! And for your information, you should know that the kid was killed by a gunshot to the face. Just one. At the moment, I can’t and won’t say any more. Buy the paper in the coming days if you want to know the results of the autopsy. Good-bye.”

  The telephone rang.

  “Whaddo I do, pass ya the call?”

  “Cat, if you don’t tell me who’s on the line, how can I know whether to take the call?”

  “Right you are, Chief. But the problem’s who’s onna line wants to remain a nominus, I mean they don’t wanna tell me their name.”

  “Put ’em on.”

  “Hello, Daddy?”

  It was Michela Manganaro, the bitch, using her gravelly Marlene voice.

  “What do you want?”

  “I heard the news on TV this morning.”

  “Are you such an early riser?”

  “No, but I had to pack my things. This afternoon I’m going to Palermo to take some exams. I’ll be away for a little while. But I’d like to see you before I go. I have something to tell you.”

  “Come to the station.”

  “No, I’d rather not, I might run into somebody unpleasant. Let’s go to that little spot in the woods that you like so much. If that’s okay, meet me outside my place at twelve-thirty.”

  “But are you sure about that?” asked Nicolò Zito, who’d shown up at eleven on the dot. “I would never have suspected. And to think that I interviewed him three or four times.”

  “I watched the video,” said Montalbano. “And from the way he spoke and carried himself, you wouldn’t necessarily have known he was homosexual.”

  “You see? But who told you he was? Couldn’t it just be some gossip people are spreading because—”

  “No, it’s from a reliable source. A woman.”

  “And Pellegrino, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you think there was anything between them?”

  “So I’m told.”

  Nicolò Zito pondered this for a moment.

  “That doesn’t really change things, however, not in any significant way. They might have been partners in the scam.”

  “It’s possible. I merely wanted to tell you to keep your eyes open, since the situation may not be so simple as Guarnotta would have it. And another thing: Try to find out exactly where they found the motorbike.”

  “Guarnotta said—”

  “I know what Guarnotta said. What I need to know is whether this corresponds to reality. Because if the motorbike was found a short distance away from the car, it means one of the divers moved it from where it was.”

  “And where was it?”

  “In the trunk.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw it.”

  Nicolò looked at him, flabbergasted.

  “You are the Polish admiral?”

  “I never said I was Polish or an admiral,” Montalbano solemnly declared.

  A bitch, yes, but a beautiful bitch, even more beautiful than the time before, perhaps because she was over her flu. She climbed into the car, thighs flashing festively in the wind. Montalbano turned onto the second road on the right, then took the dirt road on the left.

  “You remember the road very well. Did you come back here afterward, by any chance?” asked Michela as the wood came into view, opening her mouth for the first time.

  “I have a good memory,” said Montalbano. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “C’mon, what’s the hurry?” said the girl.

  She stretched like a cat, wrists crossed over her head, bust arching backwards. Her blouse looked like it was about to burst.

  A bra probably feels like a straitjacket to her, the inspector thought.

  “Cigarette.”

  As he was lighting it for her, he asked:

  “What exams are you going to be taking?”

  Michela laughed so heartily she started coughing on the smoke of her cigarette.

  “I might take one if I have any time left.”

  “If you’ve any time left? What else are you going to do?”

  Michela merely stared at him, eyes twinkling with amusement. Her expression was more eloquent than a long and detailed speech. Furious, the inspector felt himself blushing. Without warning, he wrapped his right arm around Michela’s shoulders, squeezed her tightly against him, brutally sliding his other hand between her legs.

  “Let me go! Let me go!” the girl cried in a suddenly shrill, almost hysterical voice. Breaking free of the inspector’s embrace, she opened the car door. She was genuinely upset and irritated. She got out of the car but did not walk away. Montalbano, who hadn’t moved from his seat, glared at her. Out of the blue, Michela broke into a smile, reopened the car door, and sat back down beside the inspector.

  “You’re a shrewd one,” she said. “I guess I fell for your little charade. I should have let you go on, just to see how you would have wiggled out of it.”

  “I’d have wiggled out the same way as last time,” said Montalbano, “when you got the bright idea to kiss me. But, anyway, I knew you’d react that way. Do you really enjoy being such a tease?”

  “Yes. The same way you enjoy playing the prude. Peace?”

  The girl had it all, including a good dose of intelligence.

  “Peace,” said Montalbano. “Did you really want to tell me something or was it just an excuse to have some fun?”

  “A little of both,” said Michela. “I was pretty shaken this morning, when I heard Giacomo was dead. Do you know how he died?”

  “Shot once in the face.”

  The girl gave a start, then two tears as big as pearls wet her blouse.

  “I’m sorry, I need some air.”

  She got out of the car. As she was walking away, Montalbano saw her shoulders heave with her sobbing. Which reaction was more normal, hers or Mariastella’s? All things considered, both were normal. He also got out, then walked up to the girl, offering her a handkerchief.

  “The poor guy! I feel so bad!” said Michela, wiping her eyes.

  “Were you close friends?”

  “No, but we worked together in the same room for two years. Isn’t that enough?” Her proper Italian was starting to break down into dialect. “Can you hold me?”

  For a second Montalbano didn’t understand the question. Then he put his arm around her shoulders. Michela leaned against him.

  “Do you want to go back in the car?”

  “No. It’s the fact it was his face that.... He cared so much about his face ... shaved twice a day ... used skin creams ... I’m sorry, I know I’m just babbling, but ...”

  She sniffled. Jesus, she was so much more beautiful this way!

  “I didn’t really understand the bit about the motorbike,” she said, getting hold of herself after taking a deep breath.

  The inspector tensed, paying close attention.

  “The people in charge of the investigation say they found it underwater, near Gargano’s car,” said Montalbano. “Why do you mention it?”

  “Because they used to put it in the trunk.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well, at least that’s what they did once, when Gargano asked Giacomo to come with him to Montelusa. Since he couldn’t drive him back because he had to go somewhere else afterward, they stuck the motorbike in the trunk, which was very spacious. That way Giacomo could come back by himself whenever he wanted.”

  “Maybe when the car struck the rock, the trunk opened up and the motorbike fell out.”

  “Maybe,” said Michela. “But there are lot of things I just don’t get.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way back. I want to go home.”

  As they were getting back in the car,
the inspector remembered that someone else had used the same words as Michela: “a spacious trunk.”

  13

  “There are lots of things that don’t make sense to me,” said Michela, as the inspector drove slowly back to town. “First of all, why was Gargano’s car found around here? There are two possibilities: Either the last time he was down here he left it with Giacomo, or else he came back. But to do what? If he was planning to disappear after tucking the money away in a safe place—which he certainly was, since the usual transfer of funds from Bologna to Vigata was never made that last time—then why did he come and risk losing everything?”

  “Go on.”

  “Also, assuming Gargano was with Giacomo, why meet in the car like a couple of secret lovers? Why not meet at Gargano’s hotel or in some other quiet, safe place? I’m sure all the other times they got together it wasn’t in Gargano’s car. It’s true that Gargano was cheap, but—”

  “How do you know Gargano was cheap?”

  “Well, cheap cheap, maybe not, but he was certainly tight. I know because I went out to dinner with him one night, actually twice—”

  “He asked you out?”

  “Of course. It was part of his seduction strategy. He enjoyed it. Anyway, he took me to a trattoria in Montelusa, and I could tell from his expression that he was afraid I might order expensive dishes. And then he complained when the bill came.”

  “You said it was part of his strategy. Don’t you think it was because you’re beautiful? I think all men like to be seen with a girl like you at their side.”

  “Thanks for the compliment. I don’t want to seem mean, but I have to tell you he also took Mariastella out to dinner. And the next day Mariastella was in a complete daze, a beatific smile on her face, not knowing if she was coming or going, walking around the office knocking into furniture. And you know something?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Mariastella reciprocated. She invited him to dinner at her place. And Gargano went, or so I gathered, at least, since Mariastella didn’t say anything but merely cooed with contentment, lost in the clouds.”

  “Does she have a nice house?”

  “I’ve never been there. It’s big house, a villa, just outside Vigata, pretty isolated. She used to live there with her parents. Now she’s all alone.”

  “Is it true that Mariastella keeps on paying the rent and telephone bills for the office?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Does she have money?”

  “Her father must have left her something. You know what? She wanted to pay me, out of her own pocket, for the two missing paychecks. ‘The ragioniere will reimburse me later,’ she said. Actually, no. In fact, she blurted out, ‘Emanuele will reimburse me later,’ and then turned red as a beet. She’s just crazy about the man and doesn’t want to accept reality.”

  “And what’s the reality?”

  “That in the best of cases, Gargano’s living it up on some Polynesian island. And in the worst, he’s being eaten up by the fish in the sea.”

  They arrived. Michela gave Montalbano a kiss on the cheek and got out. Then she leaned into the open window and said:

  “Actually I have three exams to take in Palermo.”

  “Good luck,” said Montalbano. “Let me know how it goes.”

  He went straight home to Marinella. As soon as he stepped inside, he noticed that Adelina had returned to work. The linen and shirts were on the bed, ironed and folded. He opened the refrigerator and found it empty, except for some black olives, fresh anchovies dressed in olive oil, vinegar, and oregano, and a generous slice of caciocavallo cheese. His mild disappointment vanished when he opened the oven: inside was a casserole of the legendary pasta’ncasciata! Four servings’ worth. Slowly and with perseverance, he shoveled it all down. Then, since the weather permitted, he settled himself in on the veranda. He needed to think. But he didn’t do any thinking. Before long, the sound of the surf gently lulled him to sleep.

  Good thing I’m not a crocodile, or I’d drown in my own tears.

  This was the last meaningful, or meaningless, thought that came into his head.

  By four he was back in his office, and Mimi immediately popped in.

  “Where were you?” the inspector asked him.

  “Out doing my job. As soon as I heard the news, I rushed to the scene and made myself available to Guarnotta. On your behalf, according to our commissioner’s guidelines. That’s our turf, isn’t it? Did I do the right thing?”

  When he put his mind to it, Augello could show them all a thing or two.

  “Absolutely. Well done.”

  “I told him I was only there in a supporting role. If he wanted, I would even go buy cigarettes for them. He was very appreciative.”

  “Did they find Gargano’s body?”

  “No, and they’re discouraged. They consulted a fisherman from the area, and he told them that unless Gargano’s been held up by some rock, by this point, with all the strong currents they’ve got around there, that body’s already sailing to Tunisia. So, if they don’t find anything by tonight, they’re going to stop looking.”

  Fazio appeared in the doorway. The inspector signaled to him to come in and sit down. Fazio had a solemn look on his face. It was obvious he could barely hold himself back.

  “And so?” Montalbano asked Mimi.

  “So Guarnotta’s scheduled a press conference for tomorrow morning.”

  “Know what he’s going to say?”

  “Of course. Why else do you think I dashed all the way out to that horrible place? He’s going to say that both Gargano and Pellegrino are victims of a vendetta by the Mafia, which our ragioniere had taken for a ride.”

  “But how, I ask you, could this blessed Mafia have possibly known a day in advance that Gargano was going to bail out on his commitments, and then killed him? If they’d killed him on the first or second of September, I would understand. But to kill him the day before, doesn’t that seem just a little teeny bit odd to you?”

  “Of course it seems odd to me. Extremely odd. But don’t ask me, ask Guarnotta.”

  The inspector, smiling broadly, turned to Fazio.

  “And where have you been hiding yourself?”

  “I’m packing,” said Fazio, dead serious. “Big guns.”

  What he meant was that he had some high cards to play. Montalbano asked him no questions, letting Fazio take his time and savor his achievement. Fazio took a little piece of paper out of his pocket, consulted it, and resumed speaking.

  “I succeeded in finding out what I wanted to know, and it cost me a lot.”

  “Did you have to pay?” asked Augello.

  Fazio shot him an annoyed glance.

  “I meant it cost me a lot of talk and patience. Banks refuse to give information on their clients’ little business ventures, especially when these ventures have a bad smell about them. But I managed to talk an official into spilling the beans anyway. He got down on his knees and asked me not to repeat his name. Are we in agreement on that?”

  “Yes,” said Montalbano. “Especially since this is isn’t our case. We’re acting out of pure and simple curiosity. Call it private curiosity.”

  “So,” said Fazio. “On the first of October of last year, at the bank where he deposited his monthly paycheck, a wire transfer of two hundred million lire was credited to the account of Giacomo Pellegrino. A second transfer of the same amount came in on the fifteenth of January of this year. The last such transfer, this time for three hundred million, was made on the seventh of July. Seven hundred million lire in all. Pellegrino didn’t have any other accounts at any other bank in Vigàta or Montelusa.”

  “Who was wiring these transfers?” asked Montalbano.

  “Emanuele Gargano.”

  “Wow,” said Augello.

  “But from the bank where he kept his personal account, not the one he used for King Midas,” Fazio continued. “Therefore the money sent to Pellegrino had nothing to do with Midas’s business dealings. It w
as clearly a personal matter.”

  When Fazio had finished speaking, he was wearing a long face. He was disappointed that Montalbano showed no surprise. The information seemed to have left the inspector indifferent. Fazio, however, refused to give up and tried again.

  “And you want to know something else I discovered? Every time he received a new transfer of funds, the next day Pellegrino would turn the money over to—”

  “—to the construction company building his house,” Montalbano concluded.

  There’s an old story that tells how, once upon a time, the king of France, sick and tired of hearing his wife, the queen of France, tell him he didn’t love her because he never got jealous, asked a gentleman of the court to come into the queen’s bedchamber the following morning, throw himself at her royal feet, and pledge his undying love to her. The king would then barge in a few minutes later and, seeing what was transpiring, throw a terrible jealous fit in front of his wife. And so the following morning the king took up position behind the queen’s door, waited for the courtier to come in, counted to one hundred, unsheathed his sword, and burst into the room. But what he saw were the queen and courtier, naked on the bed, fucking with such gusto that they didn’t even notice he’d come in. The poor king left the room, put the sword back in its sheath, and said: “Damn! They ruined my scene!”

  Fazio did exactly the opposite of the king of France.

  Seeing Montalbano ruin his scene, he bolted out of his chair, turned bright red, cursed, and stormed out of the room, muttering to himself.

  “What’s with him?” asked Augello, surprised.

  “The fact is that sometimes I’m kind of a jerk,” said Montalbano.

  “You’re telling me!” said Augello, himself a frequent victim of Montalbano’s jerkiness.

  Fazio returned almost immediately. One could see he’d gone out to wash his face.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” the inspector replied in all sincerity. Then he continued: “So the villa was entirely paid for by Gargano. The only question is: Why?”

  Mimi opened his mouth, but a gesture from the inspector made him close it again.