A Voice in the Night

by Andrea Camilleri

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ asked Montalbano, sincerely surprised.

  ‘No, you didn’t. Whereas I’m the first person you should have told.’

  ‘I apologize, I just didn’t think of it.’

  ‘Apologies aren’t enough.’

  ‘Do you want me to kneel down, too? Are you really so offended?’

  ‘Yes I am. I told you how upset I was over what that idiot journalist said when he accused us of driving Borsellino to suicide, and it would have been a relief for me to find out that he’d been murdered.’

  There was something about Augello’s attitude that Montalbano didn’t like.

  ‘Well, now that you know, you can sleep easy and be happy.’

  ‘Don’t try to be funny, this really isn’t the time for it. I want you to say it publicly.’

  ‘Say what publicly?’

  ‘That Borsellino was murdered. That way I can sue that journalist.’

  ‘And lose.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, you see, nowhere has it been said that Borsellino was murdered.’

  Mimì became flustered.

  ‘But how did you find out? Fazio told me that Pasquano told you.’

  ‘That’s true. He did tell me, but he didn’t put it in writing. In his report, that is. He didn’t want to put it in writing because, he said, the explanations for the bruises on Borsellino’s arms could be given a different interpretation by the defence.’

  ‘It’s not Pasquano’s business to worry about what the defence might say.’

  ‘Well, he did anyway.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because the Mafia scares everyone, especially when it has ties as powerful as in this case. But I’ll make you a deal.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I don’t want to handle the Strangio case; I’m in a rather delicate position. As soon as he can see me, I’m going to ask the commissioner to turn it over to you.’

  TEN

  On his way out he again passed Catarella, who was still busy working on Borsellino’s computer.

  A thought flashed through his brain like a lightning bolt.

  ‘Cat, get me the command office of the customs police of Montelusa and put the call through to my office, would you?’

  He went and sat back down at his desk, and the phone rang.

  ‘This is Inspector Montalbano of Vigàta Police. I’d like to speak with Marshal Laganà.’

  ‘Who did you say, please?’

  The receptionist seemed a little flustered.

  ‘Laganà.’

  ‘Hold the line, please.’

  He could hear him muttering to someone.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I’m new here. Marshal Laganà retired about a year ago.’

  He felt his heart sink. But there was still hope.

  ‘Do you by any chance have a telephone number for him?’

  ‘Wait just a minute and I’ll find out.’

  After a brief spell, the inspector got the bad news.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but nobody here has—’

  ‘Thanks anyway.’

  *

  So how was he ever going to track down the marshal? He remembered that Laganà had once told him he was originally from Fiacca and that he’d inherited a house there from his father . . . It was possible that upon retiring he’d returned to the town of his birth. The inspector rang Catarella and called him into his office. It was better to tell him in person what he wanted him to do.

  ‘At yer command, Chief.’

  ‘Listen carefully, Cat. I want you to call the central police station in Fiacca and find out if they know if there’s a former customs marshal named Laganà living there in town. Repeat the name.’

  ‘Lacanna.’

  ‘There’s no “canna”, for Christ’s sake! Laganà. Repeat.’

  ‘Laghianà.’

  ‘Remove the i.’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Laganà.’

  ‘Good. Now don’t forget it. If their answer is yes, ask them to give you the phone number, dial it, and then put the call through to me. Got that?’

  ‘Assolutely, Chief.’

  But he didn’t move.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Chief, c’n I say som’hn’?’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Wouldja ’llow me, isstead o’ callin’ a Fiacca police an’ doin’ everyting all roundaboutlike, to take a shortcut?’

  There was a shortcut?

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll jess ’ave a look inna Fiacca phone book t’ see if Laganà’s in it.’

  Montalbano felt humiliated.

  ‘OK, do it.’

  It was true that the phone book is usually the last thing that comes to mind when you’re looking for someone, but sincerely, this was too much.

  Dr Pasquano was right. His advancing age was making him fall apart.

  To dispel his agitation, he went over to the window and lit a cigarette. Then the telephone rang.

  ‘I foun’ it, Chief!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Crass my ’eart, Chief! Iss rilly him! The ix-marshal!’

  ‘Thanks, Cat. Put him on . . . Marshal Laganà? Remember me? This is Inspector Montalbano.’

  ‘How could I ever forget you? What a nice surprise! What a pleasure to hear from you! How are you?’

  Better not answer the question. At that moment, owing to this telephone-book business, he felt like shit.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘So so. I had to take an early retirement because of my heart . . .’

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear it.’

  ‘You caught me at home purely by chance, you know. I was on my way out.’

  ‘Oh, really? Where are you going?’

  ‘To Ragusa, with my wife. We’re going to visit our grandchildren.’

  ‘How many do you have?’

  ‘Two. A boy and a girl. Did you need something, Inspector? I’m no longer in the service, but maybe I can give you the name of a colleague of mine who—’

  ‘Actually, Marshal, if you’ve got five minutes, we may be able to resolve the whole thing over the phone.’

  ‘All right, then, what is it?’

  Montalbano told him about Borsellino’s two computers.

  ‘So,’ said Laganà, ‘they managed to get their hands on the computer the manager kept at home but not on the one he kept at the supermarket, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘And you want to know why they wanted both computers?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘There’s only one possible explanation. To prevent anyone in the police from getting the idea to compare the two computers.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ll explain. You said the supermarket computer contains among other things the records of the proceeds and the quantity of merchandise sold each day. I’m sure that if you show these files to a colleague of mine, he’ll tell you that it’s all in order – that the proceeds and sales tally perfectly with each other.’

  ‘But if it’s all in order, then why . . . I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand.’

  ‘You will in just a minute. If by chance you’d managed to get your hands on the other computer, the one that was in his home, you’d have been able to see for yourself that the figures for the proceeds and the respective sales on a given day were different from the ones registered on the supermarket computer.’

  ‘I get it!’ the inspector said finally. ‘The figures registered on the home computer were the real figures, while the ones on the office computer were false. They took in more money and sold more goods than what they showed on the, so to speak, “official” computer, the one in the manager’s office. But this is all destined to remain purely groundless conjecture because they’ve now made it impossible ever to compare the two computers.’

  ‘See? You had no trouble understanding. Listen, will you make me a
promise?’

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  ‘If you happen to find the other computer, will you let that colleague of mine have a look at it? Wait just a second and I’ll get you his number. His name is Sclafani. If my hypothesis is correct, it’ll teach those supermarket people a good lesson.’

  *

  On his way out, he stopped in front of Catarella.

  ‘It’s not so urgent about that computer any more.’

  ‘But I’m jess finishin’, Chief,’ said Catarella, disappointed.

  ‘I didn’t say we don’t need it any more. I just wanted to let you know you can take your time.’

  At that moment Augello walked by, head down, and muttered: ‘Goodbye.’

  And he headed towards the car park. Montalbano followed him and stopped beside him.

  ‘Still angry?’

  ‘I’ll get over it.’

  ‘Mimì, when we spoke in my office, I didn’t tell you that the fact that I don’t want people knowing about Pasquano’s suspicion was because it’s a whole lot better for us that way.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘It’s important that the killers think that we still believe that Borsellino committed suicide.’

  ‘Do you expect them to make some kind of false move, thinking they’re in the clear?’

  ‘Not really, but it’s always possible. No, it’s better for us because that way, we can work with a murder in mind while they still think we’re working on a suicide. Is that clear?’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Augello, getting in his car.

  ‘Same to you,’ said the inspector in turn. And he turned to open the door to his own car, which was parked next to Mimì’s.

  ‘Chief, wait!’

  It was Catarella, arriving on the run.

  ‘What the hell is it now?’ the inspector asked in irritation.

  ‘Iss ’at ’ere’s the lawyer Ne’er-Do-Well onna phone ’oo says ’e’s gotta talk t’yiz rilly oigently an’ poissonally in poisson. Wha’ shou’ I tell ’im? Are ya ’ere or not?’

  Was it Destiny itself that wouldn’t let him go home that evening?

  ‘Go and tell him I’m here.’

  Catarella dashed off, whereas the inspector took things easy, lit a cigarette, strolled about the car park while smoking it, then went inside. He found Catarella frozen, with the receiver in hand.

  ‘Count to ten and then put the call through.’

  He went back into his office, sat down, and the telephone rang.

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you at this hour; the switchboard operator said you were on your way home.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s about my client, Strangio.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘More than one, unfortunately. You see, after my client gave his deposition to Prosecutor Tommaseo, for which I was not, unfortunately, present, everything has inexplicably come to a halt.’

  Montalbano was waiting for a third, conclusive ‘unfortunately’, but unfortunately it never came.

  ‘Inexplicably? I don’t understand, sir. Among other things I don’t believe Prosecutor Tommaseo has taken any restrictive measures concerning your client.’

  ‘Well, it depends on how you define “restrictive”. If by “restrictive” you mean detention or arrest, then no, that hasn’t happened. That would take the cake! My client has an iron-clad alibi!’

  Tissue paper would better describe your client’s alibi! thought Montalbano.

  But he said nothing, asking only:

  ‘So where are these problems?’

  ‘The problems lie in the fact that the prosecutor has strictly forbidden my client to leave Vigàta and has put seals up on his house and garage.’

  ‘But as a lawyer you must know that this is routine procedure.’

  ‘Fine. You, however, are forgetting, as did Prosecutor Tommaseo, that my client is a representative of a Roman firm and therefore needs to be able to move about freely and continuously throughout Sicily. And on top of everything else, he can’t even use his car, which is now blocked in his garage.’

  ‘I understand. But I don’t see what I—’

  ‘You could at least summon him to the police station to allow him to better explain his situation. That might, at least, shorten his ordeal a little and—’

  ‘Counsellor, it is not up to me but to Prosecutor Tommaseo to interrogate him. He’s the one you should be soliciting. Is that clear?’

  ‘Quite,’ said the lawyer. ‘Good evening.’

  Now he could finally go home.

  *

  In the fridge Adelina had left him a large plate of seafood salad, while in the oven he found some involtini of swordfish.

  He laid the table on the veranda. It was a gorgeous evening. It took him an hour and a half to dispatch all the food.

  He cleared the table, went back out on the veranda with whisky and cigarettes, and started thinking.

  What could Duello’s phone call mean?

  Were they really so stupid as to want him to interrogate Strangio, even without his lawyer present? And without Tommaseo present?

  It was known to one and all that the inspector had often and willingly done that sort of thing, not giving a flying fuck about protocol and rules, but this time was different. In this case sudden brainstorms and personal initiatives might severely compromise the investigation.

  No, he would play by the rules, down to the last comma.

  His thoughts turned to the question of the computers. If luck had smiled on him and Fazio the night before and they’d got their hands on both computers, at this moment the customs police might be able to move against the Honourable Mongibello and the board of directors of the company that owned the supermarket. But that’s not the way it had gone – unfortunately, as Nero Duello, Esq., might say. Their night-time search of Borsellino’s house and office had been for naught and . . .

  He froze.

  He had the distinct impression that the entire digestive apparatus in his belly had come to a sudden stop.

  He poured himself half a glass of whisky and downed it in a single gulp. Sweat began pouring out of him. How could he have forgotten so completely about it?

  This was happening too often lately.

  What more proof did he need to convince himself that he was getting too old for his profession?

  He remembered perfectly well that he’d taken that sort of tape recorder that Fazio had removed from the breast pocket of Borsellino’s jacket and put it in his own jacket pocket.

  Afterwards, when he got back home, he’d taken off his detergent-dusted clothes and put them with the clothes to be washed.

  So the question now was: had Adelina noticed the recorder in his pocket and removed it before taking the suit to the dry cleaners?

  And if the answer was yes, where could she have put it?

  He got up and started searching all over the house, throwing everything into disarray. After half an hour of this, he gave up.

  He’d once had a similar lapse of memory involving a horseshoe and had nearly lost his life over it. But a horseshoe is one thing, and a recorder is another.

  If the dry cleaners had stuck the jacket into the machine without noticing the recorder, goodbye recording!

  The only hope was to ring Adelina. He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. She’d probably already gone to bed. Well too bad.

  ‘Goo’ God, Isspector! Wha’ happen? I’s aslip!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Adelì, but it’s really important.’

  ‘Wha’ is it?’

  ‘Did you notice whether there was anything in the breast pocket of the jacket you took to get cleaned?’

  ‘Why, was there somethin’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I dinna notice ’cause you normally dona keep nothin’ in tha’ pocket.’

  This was true.

  ‘Listen, do you have a number for the cleaners?�
�

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘When did they say you could come and get the suit?’

  ‘Day afta tomorra.’

  There might still be a ray of hope.

  ‘It must be closed at this hour, right?’

  ‘Yessir. Bu’ wait. I jess got a idea. If iss a somethin’ sirrious—’

  ‘It’s very serious, Adelì.’

  ‘Then I give a you th’ address o’ the cleaners.’

  ‘But you just said they’re closed!’

  ‘Bu’ the owner, Mr Anselmo, live a right uppastairs fro’ the shop. Th’ address is Piazza Libertà, nummer eight. Iss a righta besides the cinema.’

  *

  He put his clothes back on, left for Vigàta, and, since there was hardly anybody else on the road, ventured to drive at sixty kilometres an hour instead of the legal fifty.

  He arrived, stopped, and got out. Next to the cleaners’ shop there was a door without an intercom, but only a doorbell and the name Anselmo.

  Before ringing, he took two steps back and looked up. Light was filtering out from the balcony upstairs.

  He rang. Almost at once the door opened onto the balcony and a man of about fifty, with a moustache and wearing a vest and pyjama bottoms, came out.

  The square below was well lit, and Mr Anselmo immediately recognized Montalbano.

  ‘Inspector! What is it?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Anselmo, but I need you to open your shop for me.’

  ‘Sure, straight away.’

  There must have been an internal staircase. Moments later the front door of the shop opened.

  ‘Come on in. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Mr Anselmo, a suit of mine was brought to you and—’

  ‘It’s already been cleaned. We’ll iron it tomorrow.’

  Montalbano lost all hope.

  ‘The fact is that in the breast pocket of the jacket there was—’

  ‘Inspector, everything that’s brought to us is carefully searched before we put it in the machine. Come over here.’

  He went behind the large counter that cut the room in two, and opened a drawer. Inside there were spectacles, fountain pens, driver’s licences, ID cards, mobiles . . .

  ‘That’s it there,’ the inspector said with relief, pointing to the recorder.

  He felt like kissing Mr Anselmo on the forehead.

  *

  As usual, as he was unlocking his front door, he heard the phone ringing. And of course it stopped as soon as his hand was poised over the receiver.