The mobile was neither in the bedroom nor in the dining or living room. Nor in the kitchen or bathroom.
The last room was a sort of study.
There was a desk identical to the one in the supermarket, with an armchair and pair of metal filing cabinets full of binders. No mobile anywhere to be seen.
Montalbano opened the desk’s three drawers one after the other and was immediately convinced they contained no mobile.
But there was something that didn’t add up. And all of a sudden he realized what it was.
Just under the edge of the desktop, above the right-hand drawer, were the electrical sockets and phone jack necessary for using a computer. But there was no computer on the desk.
Fazio, who’d been following the inspector’s movements attentively, immediately understood.
‘It’s possible he didn’t have a computer at home. These desks are ready-made for computers, so it doesn’t mean . . .’
Montalbano moved a few papers that were on the desk, and from underneath them appeared a mouse and a keyboard. He showed them to Fazio without saying anything.
Fazio suddenly slapped himself on the forehead and ran to the entranceway. The inspector followed him.
Fazio opened the door softly and tried to put the key in the lock. It encountered resistance again.
‘It’s been forced,’ he said. ‘Somebody came in and—’
‘Made off with the computer,’ Montalbano concluded.
‘But the weird thing is that they definitely did it after I tested the key earlier,’ said Fazio. ‘When we were at the supermarket. And it’s possible that—’
‘Right now they’re at the supermarket to get the other computer, because they don’t know that we’ve already got it,’ Montalbano concluded again. ‘It’s like we’re taking turns.’
‘What should we do? Pay them a visit?’ Fazio suggested.
‘Let’s.’
*
They sped to the supermarket. On the way there, Fazio asked:
‘Are you armed?’
‘No. Are you?’
‘I am. There’s a wrench in the glove compartment. You should take it. It’s better than nothing.’
It wasn’t the first wrench he’d had to deal with recently, he thought as he slipped it into his jacket pocket.
‘First we’ll go past the main entrance and see if there are any cars parked outside,’ said Fazio.
There were no cars. Fazio drove carefully to the area behind the supermarket. There were no cars there, either.
When they got out, the first thing they saw were the police seals on the ground. Fazio had put them back when they’d gone out, of that he was certain.
So there was someone inside the supermarket, or else there had just been someone.
SEVEN
They had their confirmation that someone had been there after them when this key, too, had a lot of trouble fitting into the lock.
At last the key turned, but contrary to Montalbano’s expectations, Fazio did not open the door right away, but turned and looked at him.
‘So?’
‘Let’s make a deal first,’ said Fazio.
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘I’ll go in, but you won’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not armed.’
‘But I’ve got the wrench!’
‘You can just imagine how scared they’ll be when they see you’ve got a wrench. I’d bet the family jewels that the men in there are the same ones who’ve already killed two people.’
‘Listen to me for a second, Fazio. There’s no way I’m waiting outside! And don’t forget that I give the orders around here!’
‘Chief, with all due respect, just think for a second. It’s so dark in there you can’t take a single step. You can’t even see an inch in front of you. And if you run into another stack of detergent, they’ll blow us away before we can say “boo”.’
Humiliated and offended, but realizing that Fazio was right, he didn’t know what to say.
‘All right?’
‘All right,’ Montalbano promised, swallowing the bitter pill.
Fazio took out his pistol, cocked it, opened the door, and went in.
Montalbano closed the door most of the way and peered through the crack. But he couldn’t see a thing. Total blindness. And it was all surely the fault of ageing. On top of everything else, he couldn’t hear anything either, because Fazio moved like a cat.
Barely five minutes had gone by when Fazio reappeared.
‘They were here, but they’re gone.’
‘How could you tell they were here?’
‘They left all the doors of the cupboard open, as well as the desk drawers. They were looking for the computer. Good thing we were able to get it first.’
*
When he got home he showered to wash away the powdery detergent that had entered through his shirt collar and sifted down over his shoulders and chest. It took a good while because upon coming into contact with the water, the detergent bubbled up worse than soap.
When he got into bed he smelled like fresh laundry. But he was unable to fall asleep.
A question kept spinning insistently in his head: why did Borsellino have a recorder like that in his jacket pocket?
Of course he didn’t always keep it there. He must have been in the habit of putting it in his pocket after using it.
But what did he do with it? Record music?
No, he didn’t seem like the type who would listen to Chopin or Brahms.
He didn’t seem like the type for opera, either. Or even pop songs.
Therefore it was clear that, now and then, he must have recorded what was said in his office.
For what purpose?
He probably turned on the recorder when he had to reprimand or actually sack an employee. That way, if there was a dispute afterwards, he could always show what had actually happened.
Satisfied with the explanation he’d come up with, Montalbano fell asleep.
*
Early in the morning, he had a dream.
And he remembered it because he woke up right in the middle, and it was therefore still fresh in his memory.
In the dream he’d been watching part of an American movie he’d seen a long time before. It was called The Invincibles. No, he was wrong. The film was called The Untouchables.
It was about the war a special police unit was waging against the famous Al Capone. And there was a scene that he’d really liked a lot, the one where they arrest Al Capone’s accountant on an enormous staircase at the railway station.
It was very important to nab the mysterious accountant because from his records they could prove that the boss was dodging his taxes.
The funny thing about the dream was that in that scene, he, Montalbano, was the top cop, and Fazio was his assistant.
What happens in the film is that, just as the two policemen are taking aim at the accountant’s bodyguard, a pram with a child inside slips away from the woman who is pushing it and starts tumbling down the stairs. The image was clearly a homage to the great Soviet filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein.
Since, in the dream, Montalbano wasn’t paying homage to anyone, there was no pram, but in its place there was a tub of detergent not with a baby inside, but with Borsellino the manager in swaddling clothes, bonnet, and glasses, crying desperately and calling for help on his mobile.
Fazio tried to stop the detergent pram but was unable, and the detergent tub with Borsellino inside ended up squashed under a train pulling into the station.
Meanwhile the accountant’s bodyguards were throwing tins of tomatoes at Montalbano. One of them hit him in the forehead and cracked open. Fazio, seeing all that red streaming from his head, was scared to death.
‘Inspector, you’re wounded!’
‘No! It’s just tomatoes! Have you forgotten we’re in a film?’
A royal shambles, in short.
Then he remembered that before going out on his
night raid with Fazio, he’d wolfed down a hefty plate of that damn octopus.
That explained the whole bloody jumble of his dream. He’d had trouble digesting.
*
He woke up only because he’d set the alarm clock. He felt completely muddle-headed. He hadn’t slept even three hours. Just to be safe, the first thing he did was to take the rest of the octopus still in the fridge and put it outside, on the veranda. The cats could feast on it.
Then he had a very long shower, more to wake himself up than to wash. And he only stopped because he was afraid to use up all the water in the tanks.
Finally he put on a clean suit. The one from the day before was too powdery, and he’d already put it into the laundry basket. Adelina would see to having it properly cleaned.
He was about to go out when the phone rang.
Oh, God! he thought. Please spare me the usual morning murder! I’m in no condition to investigate anything, even though I’m alive!
But it was Livia.
‘How are you?’
Where had he read that that was a question one should never ask anyone?
‘Not too bad. And you?’
‘I didn’t sleep because of you.’
‘Because of me?’
‘Yes. Since we hung up last night on a bad note, I wanted to . . . apologize. I called you every half-hour. But you didn’t answer. At three o’clock I stopped calling, but I was upset. Why didn’t you answer?’
‘Livia, my precious darling, try to think for a second, and then answer me this: what, in your opinion, did we quarrel about?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Let me refresh your memory. We quarrelled because you got upset that I had to go out on a job. Remember now?’
‘Vaguely.’
The woman was going to drive him out of his mind!
‘So, to conclude: since I was out of the house, I couldn’t answer your calls. Elementary, my dear Watson.’
‘Ha ha ha!’
‘What’s that supposed to mean: ha ha ha?’
‘It means, in other words, that if you call me Watson, you think you’re Sherlock Holmes!’
No, a spat first thing in the morning, no!
‘Ciao, Livia, talk to you this evening. Now I really have to run.’
‘Run, run!’
God, that woman was obnoxious sometimes!
*
‘Cat, did Fazio by any chance give you a computer?’
‘Yessir, Chief, ’e did, iss in my custidy. Couldja tell me wha’ I’m asposta do witta foresaid?’
‘Open it, look at everything that’s in it – and I mean everything – and then come to me and give me a synopsis.’
Catarella looked distressed.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I din’t unnastand the seccun ting I’m asposta give yiz.’
‘What thing?’
‘’At ting ya said. The synappsus.’
‘Cat, I mean just come and tell me what’s inside that computer.’
‘Ah, good, Chief. Ya ’ad me scared f’r a minnit.’
*
Fazio came in.
‘Any news?’
‘Nah.’
‘What about Augello?’
‘An attempted burglary was reported last night at a furrier’s, and Inspector Augello went to check it out.’
‘Let’s hope he isn’t later accused of driving the furrier to suicide.’
‘I don’t think there’s any danger this time, Chief. The shop belongs to a man named Alfonso Pirrotta, who’s one of those people who refuse to pay the protection money.’
‘So the attempted burglary must be a warning to him to pay up,’ said Montalbano. Then he asked: ‘How many people are there in Vigàta who don’t pay?’
‘Right now, about thirty. But their number may increase soon. There’s a new judge in Montelusa, Barrafato, who says exactly what he thinks, and the shop owners are feeling encouraged.’
‘Poor Barrafato!’
Fazio gave him a perplexed look.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because sooner or later, if he gets under the Mafia’s skin enough, Barrafato will find himself summonsed by the high council of the magistrature for some phone tapping that, in the opinion of some Member of Parliament, he wasn’t authorized to do, and his name will be plastered all over the newspapers and TV, and he’ll end up transferred for being incompatible with his present environment. How much you want to bet?’
‘Nothing. I don’t like to lose bets.’
*
Fazio returned a short while later with a little grin on his face that the inspector didn’t like one bit.
‘Shall we have another go at it, Chief?’
‘Another go at what?’
‘At signing documents.’
Montalbano weighed his options. Since he had nothing else to do, it was better to brave the agony.
‘All right, bring me ten or so.’
*
He’d just finished reading and signing half of the documents when the telephone rang. He looked at his watch: it was almost eleven. He picked up the phone with great enthusiasm – maybe something had happened that would spare him the tremendous pain in the arse of signing more papers. It was Catarella.
‘Chief, ’at’d be ’at jinnelman from th’ udder day ’at wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.’
‘What do you mean, the “gentleman from the other day”? Did he tell you his name?’
‘Yeah, Chief, ’is name is Strangio.’
Strangio?! Giovanni Strangio? The crazy motorist?
It wasn’t possible. Catarella, as usual, had got the name wrong.
‘Are you sure his name is Strangio?’
‘Crass my ’eart, Chief.’
By now his heart must have more crosses than a cemetery.
And what could Strangio want?
Before receiving him, however, it was better to make sure it was indeed him.
‘Listen, show him into the waiting room. Oh, hang on. As you’re showing him in, try and see if he’s carrying a wrench.’ Just to be safe.
Catarella came back to the phone after a brief spell.
‘Y’know wha’ I did, Chief? I pretinnit to slip, an’ to keep fro’ fallin’ I grabbed right onto the guy, so I cou’ check ’im out. Pretty good idea, eh, Chief?’
‘Well done, Cat, my compliments. But did he have a wrench?’
‘Nah, ’e din’t. Crass my ’eart.’
But the inspector wasn’t convinced.
He let a few minutes go by, got up, left the room, and walked past Catarella, putting his finger to his lips to signal to him to keep quiet, went to the main entrance, and stuck his head out, scanning the car park.
The BMW he knew well was there.
There was therefore no doubt that it was him.
Again he walked past Catarella, who was looking at him in bewilderment and standing at attention, went back into his office, and picked up the phone.
‘Cat, get me Fazio, would you?’
He had just time to count up to five.
‘What is it, Chief?’
‘Listen, Fazio, that motorist is here, Strangio, the man I arrested the other day, the one who was a little too upset and—’
‘I heard about the incident, Chief, but I’ve never seen this Strangio in person.’
‘It doesn’t matter, you’ll see him now. Since I’m not sure how he feels about things at the moment, it might be best if you were also present for my meeting with him.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Better to be on one’s guard with a character like that.
Fazio came in and sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the desk.
Montalbano rang Catarella and told him to bring in the man who wanted to talk to him.
At the mere sight of him, Montalbano was speechless.
The guy who came in was not the Giovanni Strangio he’d met, but a sort of twin brother.
As much as
the first one was dissolute, neurotic, and threatening, this one was polite, orderly, and composed.
‘Good morning,’ he greeted them.
‘Please sit down,’ said Montalbano, gesturing towards the empty chair.
Strangio sat down.
‘May I smoke?’ he asked.
‘Actually, it’s not allowed,’ said the inspector. ‘But we can make an exception.’
Wasn’t it well known that you’re supposed to humour the insane?
Strangio pulled out his pack and lighter and lit a cigarette.
At that moment both the inspector and Fazio noticed that the young man’s hands were trembling violently. Apparently he was having trouble controlling the powerful agitation he felt inside.
Montalbano exchanged a lightning-quick glance with Fazio, communicating to him to stay on the alert.
It was best not to force the young man to speak; he should be allowed all the time he needed.
‘I’m here . . . I’ve come to report a murder,’ Strangio said suddenly.
The effect was the same as if he had thrown a bomb into the middle of the room.
Fazio jumped straight up; Montalbano stiffened against the back of his chair.
‘The murder of whom?’ the inspector ventured to ask.
‘My . . . my girlfriend,’ the young man replied.
Montalbano and Fazio were barely breathing.
‘Her name is . . . was . . . Mariangela Carlesimo.’
He took a last drag on his cigarette.
‘Where can I throw this away?’ he asked, holding up the cigarette butt.
The question dispelled the tension.
Montalbano relaxed, and Fazio said:
‘Give it to me.’
And he went and threw it out of the window.
‘I didn’t kill her, of course,’ Strangio resumed. ‘I merely found the body. And on top of that—’
‘Just a minute,’ Montalbano said, cutting him off. ‘Don’t say any more. Please, don’t go any further.’
The young man looked at him questioningly. As did Fazio.
‘You see, the fact is that it was I who arrested you and charged you over the incident the other day.’
‘So what?’
‘It means that I may not be the most suitable person to deal with any crime in which you are in some way involved.’
A Voice in the Night Page 7