‘All the minister wants to do is to speed up the uselessness, the pointless merry-go-round of documents ninety per cent of which have no purpose whatsoever.’
‘Yes, but a functionary is not supposed to decide which documents are necessary and which aren’t. He’s just supposed to sign them.’
And what’s this functionary anyway, a robot? Doesn’t he also have a brain? Doesn’t he think? And when the functionary knows that those documents serve no purpose, why should he deal with them at all?’
‘So what should be done, in your opinion?’
‘Uselessness should be abolished.’
‘Come on, Chief, that’s not possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because uselessness is an integral part of man.’
Montalbano looked at him in astonishment. He was discovering Fazio the philosopher.
Fazio continued:
‘Just take my advice, Chief. Don’t you think it’s better if you get rid of those documents little by little? I’ll bring you just twenty, to get started. Half an hour is all it’ll take, and you’ll have them out of your hair.’
‘All right, but let’s make it ten.’
TWO
He’d just finished signing the papers when the telephone rang.
‘Chief, ’ere’s a lawyer by the name of Ne’er-Do-Well wantsa talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.’
‘Put him on.’
‘I can’t insomuch as it so ’appens the beforemintioned lawyer’s awreddy onna primisses, Chief.’
‘All right, then, send him in. Oh, but wait a second. Are you sure his name is Ne’er-Do-Well?’
‘’Ass rilly ’is name, Chief: Ne’er-Do-Well. Jess like I said. Y’can bet the ’ouse on it, Chief.’
‘No, you can bet your own house if you like.’
The man who came in must have been about the same age as him, but was tall, slender, well dressed, and discreet in manner. The only thing that clashed with the whole was that he must have poured a good half-litre of a sickly sweet cologne over himself, which made the inspector feel like throwing up.
‘May I come in? My name is Nero Duello, I’m a lawyer.’ They shook hands. Good thing the lawyer hadn’t given him time to open his mouth, or he would have called him Ne’er-Do-Well and the whole thing would surely have taken a bad turn.
‘Please sit down, and excuse me for just a moment.’
He got up and opened the window. Otherwise he would have had to hold his breath the whole time. He inhaled a mouthful of air poisoned with car exhaust, but it was still better than that cologne. He went and sat back down.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m here on my client’s behalf.’
Montalbano paused.
‘And who’s your client?’
‘Giovanni Strangio.’
‘And who’s he?’
‘What do you mean, “Who’s he?” You arrested him yourself barely an hour ago!’
Now it was all clear. The lawyer’s client was the furious young man. But who informed the lawyer?
‘I’m sorry, but how did you find out that—’
‘Strangio called me himself.’
‘From where?’
‘From here! From the holding cell! With his mobile.’
Apparently Gallo hadn’t thought to take his phone away. He made a mental note to give him a tongue-lashing.
‘Listen, sir, I still haven’t questioned your client yet.’
He picked up the phone.
‘Catarella, send Gallo to me, would you?’ As soon as the officer arrived, the inspector asked him:
‘Did you have him do the breathifier?’
‘You mean the breathalyser?’
‘Whatever.’
For a second he felt like he was turning into Catarella. ‘Came out negative, Chief.’
‘And the other tests?’
‘A blood sample was taken. It’s being processed in Montelusa.’
‘License, insurance, inspection, all in order?’
‘Yes, sir, all in order.’
‘All right, you can go. Ah, wait a second. Did you take his mobile from him?’
Gallo slapped himself on the forehead.
‘Oh, damn!’
‘Go and get it. We’ll talk about this later, just the two of us.’
Gallo went out.
‘You’ll see that toxicology test will also come out negative,’ said the lawyer.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I know my client. He doesn’t use drugs and never has.’
‘So he’s just high on life?’ the inspector asked.
The lawyer threw up his hands.
‘The fact, you see, is that these sorts of exploits are not new to my client.’
‘You mean he often works with a monkey wrench?’
The lawyer threw up his hands again.
‘He’s not all there in the head.’
It was hopeless. Despite the open window, the scent of cologne had started to permeate the room. It made Montalbano feel agitated. Maybe that was what led him to say something a little over the top.
‘But do you realize that this Strangio is a potential murderer? A future hit-and-run driver who won’t stop to help someone he’s run over?’
‘Inspector, I think the language you’re using is a little strong.’
‘But it was you yourself, just now, who said he’s not all there!’
‘But that’s a long way from calling him a murderer! Let me tell you something quite frankly, Inspector. I don’t like one bit having someone like Giovanni Strangio as a client.’
‘So why do you do it?’
‘Because I’m his father’s lawyer, and he begged me to—’
‘And who’s his father?’
‘His father is Michele Strangio, president of the province.’
A few things suddenly became clear to Montalbano.
The first was the reason why, even though he was off in the head, nobody had, at the very least, taken his driver’s licence away.
‘So I’m here,’ the lawyer resumed, ‘to ask you to bury the hatchet in this whole affair.’
‘If I bury any hatchet it’ll be in your client’s brain. Get my drift?’
But what the hell was he saying? Was it possible that particular brand of cologne somehow lowered his inhibitions?
‘Please just forget the whole thing,’ Nero Duello insisted, ‘and we, for our part, will forget about the provocation.’
‘What provocation?’
‘Yours. At the petrol station. It was you, by parking your car in front of his, who prevented him from leaving. Which made my client lose his temper and . . .’
This was true. What a brilliant idea it had been for him to decide to stir things up with the young hothead! His only choice now was to start piling on a great quantity of fabrications in self-defence. But first he had to take a deep breath and calm down. He got up, went to the window, poisoned his lungs a little more, and sat back down.
‘Is that all he told you?’
‘Why, is there more?’
‘Hell yes, there’s more! And in any case there was no provocation on my part. At that moment I’d realized I had no more petrol in the tank and I botched the manoeuvre when I pulled into the station. I wanted to pull out again, but the engine wouldn’t start. I have a very old car. That said, didn’t your client tell you that five minutes earlier he’d tried to run me off the road?’
The lawyer grinned.
‘For what happened at the pump, there’s a witness. The station attendant.’
‘But all the attendant witnessed was that my car wouldn’t move! He certainly can’t say I did it on purpose! And I’ll have you know that there are two witnesses to the fact that your client tried to run me off the road!’
‘Really?’
The lawyer’s question had a note of irony. So Montalbano decided to try a desperate bluff. Looking Nero Duello straight in the eye, he opened the top drawer of his desk, pu
lled out two sheets of paper at random, and starting reading one:
‘I, the undersigned, Antonio Passaloca, son of Carmelo Passaloca and Agata née Conigliaro, born in Vigàta on 12 September 1950 and residing there at Via Martiri di Belfiore 18, declare the following: at around nine o’clock this morning, as I was driving on the provincial road towards Vigàta—’
‘That’s quite enough,’ said the lawyer.
He’d swallowed it, had the good lawyer. Montalbano put the paper back into the drawer. He’d pulled it off!
Nero Duello heaved a sigh and took a different tack.
‘All right then. I take back what I said about provocation.’
He leaned his upper body towards the inspector and rested his arms on the desk. He bent forward, and that movement unleashed a blast of cologne straight into Montalbano’s nostrils and down into the pit of his stomach, stirring up a wave of nausea that rose into his throat.
‘But I’m begging you, Inspector, to try and understand. Because if people like us, who’ve already reached a certain age, can’t be understanding, who—’
He’d said the very words he shouldn’t have. Between the allusion to old age and the retching reflex, Montalbano couldn’t hold back any longer.
‘Me, be understanding? Me, a certain age? You know what? I’m going to ask for the maximum sentence for your client! The maximum!’
The lawyer stood up, worried.
‘Are you feeling all right, Inspector?’
‘I feel great! You’ll see how great I feel!’
He opened the door and yelled into the hall.
‘Gallo!’
The officer came running.
‘Get the detainee and take him to Montelusa prison. At once!’
Then, turning to the lawyer.
‘I think your business is finished here.’
‘Good day,’ Nero Duello said drily, going out.
Montalbano left the door open to air the room out a little.
Then he sat down and started writing the report. He slipped in a good ten possible crimes. He signed it and sent it to the prosecutor’s office.
That should fix Giovanni Strangio.
*
Around noon a call came in.
‘Chief, ’at’d be a soitan Mr Porcellino ’oo wantsa talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.’
Montalbano didn’t trust him.
‘Cat, is this a repeat performance?’
‘When wazza foist one, Chief?’
‘The first one was when you called the lawyer Ne’er-Do-Well instead of Nero Duello.’
‘But ’ass azackly what I said! Ne’er-Do-Well!’
How could you reason with a person like that?
‘Are you sure this man’s name really is Porcellino?’
‘Assolutely, Chief. I swear on my mama’s head.’
‘Did he tell you what he wanted?’
‘Nah, ’e din’t say, but ’e sounded like ’e was rilly teed off. Like a lion inna jangle, Chief.’
The inspector really didn’t feel like taking the call, but then his sense of duty won out.
‘Montalbano here. What can I do for you, Mr Porcellino?’
‘Porcellino?! So now you’re going to start fucking me about as well?’ the man said furiously. ‘Borsellino’s the name! Guido Borsellino!’
OK, that would teach him never, not even for a second, to trust Catarella, who always mangled people’s names.
‘I’m terribly sorry, sir, really, but our receptionist must have heard wrong. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m being accused of the most incredible things! They’re treating me like a thief! I demand that you, who are their superior, apologize at once!’
Apologize? The inspector’s balls immediately took off into a spin, a sort of rocket blast-off.
‘Listen, Mr Por – er, Borsellino, I suggest you wash your face, calm down, and then call back.’
‘I’m not—’
Montalbano hung up.
*
Not five minutes later, the phone rang again. This time it was Fazio.
‘Sorry, Chief, but . . .’
Apparently it wasn’t an easy call to make for Fazio. ‘What is it?’
‘Could you come here to the supermarket?’
‘Why?’
‘The manager’s making a stink because Inspector Augello asked him a couple of questions he didn’t appreciate. He says he won’t talk unless his lawyer is present.’
‘Listen, is this manager’s name Borsellino?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He called just now to break my balls.’
‘What do you say, Chief, will you come?’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
*
As he was heading towards Piano Lanterna, he remembered that people about town had been whispering that that supermarket was owned by a company made up entirely of front men, since the people who had actually put up the money for it all belonged to the Cuffaro family, which divided up all the business in town with its enemies, the Sinagra family. He was driving through the part of Piano Lanterna where four horrendous dwarf high-rises – or rather, abortions of high-rises – had been built to house the population that had almost entirely deserted the centre of town to move to the upland plain.
Once upon a time, to judge from photos and from what the headmaster Burgio, an elderly friend of his, had told him, the whole elevated part consisted of only two rows of small houses flanking the road to the cemetery. And all around were large open spaces for bocce and football games, family outings, duels, and epic clashes between feuding families.
Now it was a sea of cement, a sort of casbah dominated by fake high-rises.
*
The supermarket was closed, but the policeman on duty took him to the manager’s office.
Passing through the shop, he saw Fazio questioning some cashiers.
In the manager’s office he found Mimì Augello sitting in a chair in front of a desk, behind which sat a very thin man of about fifty without a hair on his head, wearing very thick-lensed glasses. He was quite upset.
As soon as he saw the inspector walk in he shot to his feet.
‘I want my lawyer!’
‘Have you accused Mr Borsellino of something?’ the inspector asked his deputy.
‘I haven’t accused him of anything,’ replied Mimì, cool as a cucumber. ‘I merely asked him two or three simple questions, and he—’
‘Simple questions, you call them!’ cried Borsellino.
‘ – he got upset. Anyway, it was him who called us to report the burglary.’
‘And so if somebody calls you to report a burglary, you feel obliged to accuse the victim of perpetrating the crime?’
‘I did nothing of the sort,’ replied Mimì. ‘You arrived at that conclusion all by yourself.’
‘What else could I conclude?’
‘Excuse me just a minute,’ said Montalbano. ‘Let me get this straight. Mr Borsellino, I want you to repeat to me what you said to Inspector Augello. How did you discover you’d been robbed?’
Borsellino first took a deep breath to calm his nerves, then spoke.
‘Since there were quite a few items on sale yesterday, by the end of the day my receipts were considerable.’
‘How much?’
Borsellino looked at a sheet of paper on the desk.
‘Sixteenthousandsevenhundredandtwentyeight euros and thirty cents.’
‘All right. And what do you normally do with the day’s proceeds? Do you go and deposit them every evening in your bank’s night safe?’
‘Of course.’
‘And why not yesterday?’
‘Madonna biniditta! I explained that to this gentleman here! How many times do I have to say it?’
‘Mr Borsellino, I already told you on the phone to calm down. It’s in your own interest.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Emotion gives bad advice. In your agitation you might say something you don
’t want to say.’
‘That’s why I want my lawyer!’
‘Mr Borsellino, nobody is accusing you of anything, so you don’t need any lawyer. Don’t be silly! You know something?’
But he didn’t tell him straight off. He started staring at the stamp on an envelope that lay on the desk.
‘Do I know what?’ asked the manager.
Montalbano took his eyes off the envelope and looked at him.
‘To me you don’t seem so upset about the burglary. You seem scared.’
‘Me?! Scared of what?’
‘I don’t know, it’s just my impression. Shall we go on? Or should we go down to headquarters and continue there?’
‘Let’s go on.’
‘I asked you why you didn’t deposit the money.’
‘Ah, yes. When I got to the night safe, there was a sign that said out of order. What choice did I have? I came back here, put the money into this drawer of the desk, locked it, and went home. This morning, about an hour after I came in – or maybe longer, I don’t remember – I realized that someone had forced open the drawer and stolen the money. And I called your police station, with the fine results we see here!’
Montalbano turned to Augello.
‘Did you phone the bank?’
‘Of course! And they told me the night safe worked just fine last night – they knew nothing about any sign saying out of order.’
‘I swear on my mother’s blessed soul that there was a sign!’ said Borsellino.
‘I’m not doubting you,’ said Montalbano.
The man was stumped.
‘You believe me?’
Montalbano didn’t answer, but went and looked at the lock that had been forced. Whoever did it must not have had much trouble opening it; a hairpin would have done the trick.
Inside the drawer, on top of a few invoices, was thirty euro cents in change.
‘So what did you ask Mr Borsellino to get him so upset?’ Montalbano asked Augello.
‘I simply asked him, given that nobody other than himself knew that the money was in that drawer, and given that there are no signs of any of the outside doors of the supermarket having been forced – I simply asked him whether he could explain to me how and in what fashion the burglars, in his opinion, could have got inside, and how they knew that the money hadn’t been deposited but was here instead.’
A Voice in the Night Page 2