August Heat

by Andrea Camilleri

  'AH right. So I heard about the strike but didn't pay any attention. Nevertheless, after a little while, an idea started to form in my head. I thought it over, and all at once everything became clear to me. Crystal clear. So, very early this morning I left for Punta Raisi. I had to see if my initial theory would stand up.'

  'And did it?'

  'Completely.'

  'So?'

  'It means I know the name of Rina's killer.' 'Spitaleri,' Fazio said calmly.

  EIGHTEEN

  'Oh, no, you don't!' Montalbano roared. 'You can't screw up my performance like that! It's not fair! I'm supposed to be the one to say the name! Show more respect for your superiors!'

  'I won't say another word,' Fazio promised.

  Montalbano calmed down, but Fazio couldn't tell if he was seriously angry or only joking.

  'How did you work it out?'

  'Chief, you went to Punta Raisi to confirm something. Until proven to the contrary, Punta Raisi is an airport. Now who, among the suspects, got on a plane? Spitaleri. Angelo Speciale and his stepson Ralf went by train. Correct?'

  'Correct. So, when I heard the word "strike", it occurred to me that we had always taken for granted that Spitaleri's alibi was true. I had also learned that when our colleagues in Fiacca, who were handling the case of the disappearance, had pressed Spitaleri with questions, he had wriggled out with the story of his trip to Bangkok. And I thought they'd checked it. Which was why we never asked him to prove that he actually left for Bangkok on that day.'

  'But, Chief, we have indirect confirmation. Dipasquale and his secretary had a phone call from Spitaleri when he was at a stopover on the way. And I'm convinced that call was made.'

  'Yes, but who says it came from a stopover? If you call me long-distance direct from a public phone or mobile, I don't know where you're calling from. You can say you're in Ambaradam or at the Arctic Circle, and I have no choice but to believe you.'

  ‘True.’

  'That's why I went to Police Headquarters at Punta Raisi. They were very nice. It took four hours, but I was right on target. That twelfth of October was a Wednesday. The Thai Airways flight takes off from Fiumicino in Rome at two fifteen. Spitaleri leaves for Punta Raisi to catch a plane to Fiumicino that should get him there in time to catch the other flight. But, once at Punta Raisi, he finds out that the plane that's supposed to take him to Rome is delayed for two hours due to technical problems. Therefore he's not going to make it in time to catch the plane to Bangkok. So, he's stranded at Punta Raisi. He manages to get his ticket changed to the next day. Not a big problem. The Thai flight for Thursday leaves Rome at two forty-five in the afternoon. Thus far, we're on safe ground.'

  'In what sense?'

  'In the sense that we can document everything I've said. Now I'm going to conjecture. That Spitaleri, having nothing to do in Palermo, returns to Vigata. I believe he took the Trapani road, which, before getting here, passes Montereale. He decides to see if the work at Pizzo has been finished. Bear in mind that the decision to wait till the following day to bury the illegal apartment was made by Dipasquale, and therefore Spitaleri doesn't know this. When he gets there, everyone's gone: the masons, Speciale, Ralf. He can see, however, that the illegal floor has not been covered. He can still get inside. At this point — and this is my boldest conjecture — he notices Rina in the vicinity. And it must have occurred to him that he himself, at that moment, in that place, did not exist.'

  'What do you mean, he didn't exist?'

  'Think. There's no way Spitaleri can be at Pizzo at that time of the day. Everyone thinks he's on his way to Bangkok and, what's more, he hasn't yet returned to Vigata. Therefore no one knows he never left. What better opportunity? He calls his office from his mobile phone. Thus he confirms his alibi. He thinks everything's covered, but he makes a big mistake.'

  'Namely?'

  'The phone call itself. Apparently it had been at least three months since Spitaleri last went to Bangkok because as of July the Thai Airways flights from Rome became direct. There were no stopovers.'

  'And what happened next, in your opinion?'

  'Always remember I'm sailing on the seas of hypothesis. Thinking he's safe, he approaches Rina and, when he sees the girl's not interested, he pulls out the knife he always carries with him — which he also pointed at Ralf, as Adriana told us — and forces her into the underground apartment. You can imagine the rest.'

  'No,' said Fazio. 'I don't want to imagine it.'

  'And this also explains the contract.'

  'The one with Speciale?'

  'Exactly. The agreement he made with Speciale to sort out the house after the amnesty was granted. One thing about it seemed fishy to me, the bit about Speciale not being allowed to ask any other company to do the work. Spitaleri wanted to be absolutely certain that he would be the one to dig out the illegal floor, which would enable him to get rid of the trunk with the dead girl inside it. This idea occurs to him while he's abroad, and that's why, the moment he gets back, he races over to Speciale's house, hoping he's still in Vigata. Does that make sense to you?'

  'It does.'

  'So, in your opinion, what should I do now?'

  'What should you do? Tomorrow morning you go to Prosecutor Tommaseo, you tell him the whole story and—'

  'I take it you-know-where.'

  'Why?'

  'Because, since it involves somebody with connections like Spitaleri's, Tommaseo will proceed as if he's walking on eggshells. Not only that. He'll find himself confronted by lawyers who'll eat him raw. Laying hands on Spitaleri means making life unpleasant for too many people - Mafi-osi, MPs, mayors. He's got attack dogs all around him.'

  'Chief, Tommaseo may have a habit of losing his head with women, but when it comes to integrity—'

  'But he'll be surrounded.' If you like, I'll give you a little preview of Spitaleri's line of defence.

  '"But on the morning of the twelfth, my client left Palermo on an earlier flight than the one that had the breakdown."

  "But Spitaleri's name does not appear in any of the manifests of the earlier flights!" "Yes, but Rossi's does!"

  "And who is this Rossi?"

  "A passenger who gave up his seat, allowing Spitaleri to leave earlier to catch the flight to Bangkok."' 'Can I do Tommaseo's part?' asked Fazio. 'Of course.'

  '"So how do you explain the telephone call from a stopover that never occurred?"' After asking the question, he eyed the inspector triumphantly.

  Montalbano laughed. 'You know how the lawyer will respond? Like this.

  '"But my client called from Rome! The Thai flight that day took off at six thirty p.m., not at two fifteen!"'

  'Is that really when it left?' asked Fazio.

  'Yes. Except that Spitaleri didn't know there would be a delay. He thought the flight was already on its way to Bangkok.'

  Fazio twisted his face doubtfully. 'Of course, when you put it that way...'

  'Don't you see I'm right? We risk playing follow-up to the Arab mason's number.'

  'So, what should we do?'

  'We absolutely have to get a confession.'

  'Easy to say!'

  'Look, there's no guarantee that we'll succeed in sending him to prison even with a confession. He'll say we tortured and beat him into it. A confession is the minimum we need just to take him to court.'

  'Okay, but how?'

  'I've got a vague idea.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. But I don't want to talk about it here. Could we meet at my place tonight, around ten thirty?'

  It was eight o'clock when he got back to Marinella. The first thing he did was go out on to the veranda.

  There wasn't a breath of wind. The air felt like a heavy mantle cast over the earth. The heat absorbed by the sand during the day was only now turning to vapour, making the atmosphere hotter and more humid. The sea seemed dead, the white foam of the surf like drool.

  His agitation over Adriana's visit and the things he would have to ask her made him sweat
as much as if he were in a sauna.

  He took off his clothes and went to the refrigerator in his underpants. He was dumbstruck. He remembered that he hadn't looked inside it since Adelina had told him she was going to make him enough food for two days. What he was looking at wasn't the inside of a refrigerator, but a corner of La Vucciria, the great Palermo market. He inhaled the scent of dish after dish, and it was all still fresh.

  He laid the table on the veranda. He brought out green olives, cured black passuluna olives, celery, caciocavallo cheese, and six dishes, one with fresh anchovies, one with calamaretti, another with purpiteddri, another with squid, another with tuna and another with sea snails. Each was dressed differently, and there was still more in the fridge.

  Afterwards he took a shower and decided to call Livia. He needed to hear her voice at the very least. Perhaps to steel himself for Adriana's imminent visit. He was greeted by the same recording of a woman's voice telling him that the telephone of the person he'd called was either switched off or unobtainable.

  Unobtainable! What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  And why was Livia making herself unavailable when he needed her most? Couldn't she hear the silent SOS he was sending her? Was the young lady perhaps too distracted by the diversions, indeed the entertainments, provided by Cousin Massimiliano?

  As he grew more and more furious, not knowing whether the cause was jealousy or wounded pride, the doorbell rang. He was unable to move. A second ring, longer this time.

  Finally he went to open the door, walking like a combination of a condemned man on his way to the electric chair and a fifteen-year-old on his first date, already drenched with sweat.

  Adriana, wearing jeans and a blouse, kissed him lightly on the lips, as if they'd long been intimate, and entered the house, brushing against him. How could it be that in this terrible heat the girl always smelled so cool and fresh?

  'It took some doing,' she said, 'but I finally made it! Would you believe I feel sort of moved? Let me see it.'

  'See what?'

  'Your house.'

  She had a careful look round, room after room, as if she was going to buy it. 'Which side do you sleep on?' she asked, standing at the foot of the bed.

  'Over there. Why?'

  'No reason. Just curious. What's your girlfriend's name?' 'Livia.'

  'Where's she from?' 'Genoa.'

  'Let me see the picture.' 'Of what?'

  'Your girlfriend, of course.'

  'I haven't got one.' 'Come on, I won't eat it.' 'It's true. I haven't got one.' 'Why not?' 'I don't know.' 'Where is she now?' 'She's away.'

  It had slipped out. Adriana gave him a confused look.

  'She's on a boat with friends,' he explained. Why hadn't he told her the truth? 'Everything's ready on the veranda. Come,' he said, to steer her away from that delicate subject.

  On seeing the table, Adriana baulked. 'It's true I like to eat, but all this stuff... God, it's so beautiful here!' 'You have to sit down first.'

  Adriana sat on the bench but slid over only a little, so that for Montalbano to sit, he had practically to press against her.

  'I don't like this,' said Adriana.

  'You don't like what?'

  'Sitting like this.'

  'You're right. It's too tight. If you'd just slide over a little...'

  'That's not what I meant. I don't like eating without looking at you.'

  Montalbano went to get a chair and sat in front of her. He, too, felt better with a little distance between them. But how was it that, even as the night progressed, the heat remained so intense? 'May I have a little wine?'

  He took out a strong, chilled white. It went down the throat like a dream. There were two more bottles in the refrigerator. 'Before I begin, I must ask you something I'm anxious to know.'

  'I haven't got a boyfriend. And I'm not with anyone.'

  The inspector felt embarrassed. 'That's not what ... I didn't mean ... Do you know Spitaleri personally?'

  'The builder? The one who saved Rina from Ralf? No, we were never introduced.'

  'How come? After all, you and your sister lived just a few yards away from his work site.'

  'True: But, you see, during that period I was living more with my aunt and uncle in Montelusa than with my parents in Pizzo. I never met him.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Yes.'

  'What about afterwards? During the search for Rina?'

  'My aunt and uncle took me back to Montelusa almost immediately. My parents were too involved with the search — they couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. My aunt and uncle wanted to get me away from that stressful atmosphere.'

  'More recently?'

  'I don't think so. I didn't go to the funeral. I kept out of the television interviews. Only one newspaper wrote that Rina had a sister, but they didn't specify that we were twins.'

  'Shall we start eating?'

  'Gladly. Why did you ask me about Spitaleri?' 'I'll tell you later.'

  'You said earlier there was some news.' 'We'll talk about that later, too.'

  They were eating in silence, occasionally looking each other in the eye, when all of a sudden Montalbano felt one of Adriana's knees pressing against his. He spread his legs slightly, and one of hers slid between them. Then, with her other leg, Adriana took one of his prisoner, squeezing it hard.

  It was a miracle the wine went down the right way. But the inspector felt a blush rising and got angry with himself.

  Later, Adriana gestured towards the sea snails. 'How is one supposed to eat those?'

  'You have to pull them out with a big sort of hairpin that I put among the silverware at your place.'

  Adriana tried opening one but didn't succeed. 'You do it for me,' she said. Montalbano used the pin, and she opened her mouth to let him feed her. 'Mmm. It's good. More.' Each time she opened her mouth for a snail, Montalbano nearly had a heart attack.

  The bottle of wine was empty in a flash.

  'I'll open another.'

  'No,' said Adriana, squeezing his imprisoned leg, but she must have noticed his anxiety. 'Okay’ she said, liberating him.

  Returning with the opened bottle, the inspector didn't sit in the chair but on the bench, beside her.

  When they had finished eating, he cleared the table, leaving the bottle and glasses. When he sat down again, Adriana tucked herself under his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder. 'Why do you keep running away?'

  Had the moment come to talk seriously? Perhaps that was best, to confront the question head-on. 'Adriana, believe me, I have no desire whatsoever to run away from you. I like you in a way that has rarely happened to me. But do you realize there's a thirty-three-year age difference between us?'

  'I'm hardly asking you to marry me.'

  'Okay, but it's the same thing. I'm practically antique, and it really doesn't seem right to me that ... Someone the right age, on the other hand...'

  'But what's the right age, anyway? Twenty-five? Thirty? Have you seen men of that age? Have you heard them talk? Do you know how they behave? They have no idea about women!'

  'To you I'm just a passing fad, but for me, you risk becoming something else entirely. At my age—'

  'Enough of the age stuff. And don't imagine I want you the way I might want an ice-cream cone. Speaking of which, have you got any?'

  'Ice cream? Yes.'

  He took it out of the freezer, but it was so hard he was unable to cut into it. He brought it out on to the veranda. 'Custard and chocolate. Sound okay to you?' he asked, sitting down as before.

  And, also as before, she tucked herself under his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder.

  In five minutes the ice cream was edible. Adriana ate hers in silence, without changing position.

  Then, as Montalbano was pushing away her empty plate, he noticed that the girl was crying. The sound wrung his heart. He tried to make her raise her head from his shoulder so he could look her in the eye, but she resisted. 'There's another thing you have to consider,
Adriana. That for years I've been with a woman I love. And I've always tried as best I can to remain faithful to Livia, who is...'

  'Away,' said Adriana, raising her head and looking him in the eye.

  The same thing must have happened to castles under siege during the wars of yesteryear. Their occupants would hold out for a long time against hunger and thirst, pour boiling oil to repel those climbing the walls, and they would seem impregnable. Then a single shot of a catapult, precise and well aimed, would knock down the iron door, and the besiegers would burst in, encountering no more resistance.

  Away. That was the key word Adriana had used. What had the girl heard in that word when he'd used it? His anger? His jealousy? His weakness? His loneliness?

  Montalbano embraced her and kissed her. Her lips tasted of custard and chocolate.

  It was like plunging into the great August heat.

  Then Adriana said, 'Let's go inside.'

  They stood up, still embracing, and at that moment the doorbell rang.

  'Who can it be?' asked Adriana.

  'It's ... it's Fazio. I told him to come. I'd forgotten about it.'

  Without a word, Adriana went to lock herself in the bathroom.

  As soon as he set foot on the veranda Fazio, seeing the two glasses and the two small ice-cream dishes, asked, 'Is someone else here?' 'Adriana.'

  'Ah. And is she leaving now?'

  'No.'

  'Ah.'

  'Like a glass of wine?' 'No, sir, thanks.' 'Some ice cream?' 'No, sir, thanks.'

  Clearly he was irritated by the girl's presence.

  NINETEEN

  They'd been sitting on the veranda for nearly an hour, but even as the night advanced, it brought no relief. In fact, it seemed hotter than ever, as if that wasn't a half-moon in the sky but the midday sun.

  When he'd finished talking, he looked inquisitively at Fazio. 'What do you think?' he said.

  'You'd like to call Spitaleri into the station for questioning, subject him to one of those interrogations that last a day and a night, and then, when he's reduced to the state of a doormat, have Miss Adriana, whom he's never seen before, suddenly appear before him. Is that what you're saying?'

  'More or less.'