“Would you come with me please?”
She stood up, and the inspector followed her into the bedroom. The window looked out onto a courtyard with a great many balconies and windows large and small giving onto it.
“Have you ever seen that film where a man with a broken leg spends his days spying on other people through the window?”
“Rear Window, Hitchcock.”
“My husband used to do the same thing. I would watch television, and he would watch what others were doing in their homes.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“About what?”
“About what the others were doing in their homes.”
“Ah, well! That was all he ever wanted to talk about. The newlywed bride ushering her lover into the house was his favorite character. Another favorite was the old pensioner who would sneak into his granddaughter’s room the moment his wife fell asleep. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction—I really don’t like that sort of thing.”
“I’m sorry, signora, but I have to ask you a difficult question. When he did these things, did he always remain only an observer?”
Ernestina must not have grasped the real meaning of the question.
“Why? What else could he do?”
“You know, sometimes in cases like this, the desire to intervene, to upset the normal course of other people’s lives, becomes very strong. It’s hard to resist the temptation.”
Ernestina finally got it.
“You mean blackmail?”
“Yes, but not only. You can also intervene just for fun.”
“How?”
“Let me give you an example. I see the young housewife letting her lover into the apartment, and so I write an anonymous letter to the husband and then sit back and enjoy what happens next.”
“You call that fun?”
“No, I don’t, personally, but some people might.”
Ernestina paused to think about this for a few moments, opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, then finally spoke.
“I really don’t think Filippo would ever be capable of blackmailing someone. I suppose he might do something just for the wicked fun of it. But he wasn’t a bad person inside, you shouldn’t think that. You’ve never met him. He’s . . .”
“Well, it’s precisely because I’ve never met him that I’m asking you these questions. You were saying he’s . . .”
“Unpredictable, that’s it.”
They returned to the living room. But Montalbano didn’t sit back down.
“Pardon me for asking, signora, but do you live on what your ex-husband gives you, or do you work?”
“Afternoons I work as a sales clerk in a clothing store. And I have a gentleman friend. We’re going to get married as soon as the divorce is settled.”
She said this without hesitation, and Montalbano appreciated her sincerity.
“Then I guess I have nothing more to ask you. I’ll be on my way. But if by any chance your husband gets in touch with you, please call me at once at Vigàta Police. You’ve been very kind.”
“I’ll show you out.”
As Montalbano was descending the first stair and Ernestina was closing the door, he suddenly wanted to ask her another question, something that had been left hanging.
“I’m sorry, signora, but you said that the telescope was one of your husband’s manias. What were the others?”
“He had one other: his feet. He was constantly fussing over them, doing his own pedicures.”
A bolt of lightning paralyzed the inspector. He stood there with his body half rotated, head turned all the way around, left foot raised above the second stair, right hand gripping the banister. He couldn’t move. Signora Ernestina got worried.
“Inspector, do you feel all right?” she asked, coming out onto the landing.
“Wha . . . wha . . .” Montalbano stammered. Then he caught his breath and managed to speak.
“Why did your husband give up dancing?”
“He had an accident. He ruptured a ligament.”
Montalbano very nearly rolled down the stairs.
“And so, if Manzella had been in the well for five days, then the phone call to Fazio was a trap.”
“Jesus, Mimì, you’re getting so sharp you’re becoming dangerous!”
“You told me Fazio didn’t believe what Manzella was telling him. Whereas it was all true.”
“Another staggering conclusion, Mimì.”
“Salvo, you know what I say to you? I’m just gonna stop talking. I’m sick of this shit.”
“Let me ask you a question. That way you’ll be forced to say something a little less idiotic. In your opinion, why did they shoot one of his feet?”
“One of whose feet?”
“Manzella’s. Didn’t I tell you? No? First they shot him in the foot, then they let him bleed for a few hours, and in the end they killed him. The question is: why’d they do it?”
“To make him talk.”
“All right, Mimì, but that’s not what I’m asking. Why in the foot? Normally to make somebody talk, you burn his hand with a cigarette or you shoot him in the knee or the arm . . .”
“Maybe the gun of one of the guys interrogating him went off by accident.”
“You’re cold, Mimì.”
“Maybe he had a thing about his feet, maybe he took good care of them . . .”
“You’re getting warmer, Mimì.”
“’Cause he used to be a ballet dancer!”
“Bravo, Mimì! You see? When you put your mind to it, you can be intelligent! They shot him in the part of his body he cared most about. To humiliate him.”
12
Mimì was lost in thought.
“What is it?”
“I just remembered a movie I saw many years ago. Some bandits shoot a guy in the foot to . . . No, Salvo, they didn’t do it to humiliate him. They wanted to have fun with him. The guy raised the injured foot while the others shot around his good foot, telling him to dance. And he jumped around . . . turning round in circles . . . hopping and jumping . . .”
He trailed off.
“Salvo, what’s wrong?” he said.
Montalbano had turned very pale. The seagull’s dance of death had suddenly come back to him.
“It’s nothing . . . Just a little dizziness.”
“Do you ever have your blood pressure taken?”
“We were talking about something else entirely, Mimì. Please continue.”
“Well, apparently with their game they got him to talk, maybe by telling him they would spare his life. And so he told them he’d mentioned a couple of things to Fazio, and they killed him.”
“And then they tried to liquidate Fazio.”
“So what do we do now?” Augello asked.
“Two urgent things. First, we have to get Fazio to a safe place. Somewhere nobody knows about.”
“Got any ideas?”
“There’s something I want you to do. Go immediately to the commissioner, right now, in fact, and tell him the whole story of Manzella, and tell him also that they’ve already tried to get at Fazio in Fiacca Hospital.”
“Shall I ask him for round-the-clock surveillance?”
“No. I want Fazio brought to one of our own infirmaries.”
“All right, but in the meantime?”
“I’m going to see him again today, and I’ll try to stay as long as possible. I’ve also talked to the two cops keeping guard just a few yards down from his room. I think we can rest easy tonight.”
“And what’s the second thing?”
“Do you remember Rizzica, the guy who came to tell us his suspicions about one of his fishing crews?”
“Of course I remember him.”
; “Have him come in tomorrow, around noon. We’ve been wasting time. We should’ve listened to him sooner. Oh, and one more thing. You should probably inform Signora Ernestina.”
“Who’s she?”
“Manzella’s ex-wife.”
“Shit, what a pain. She’s gonna start crying, tearing her hair out, and I can’t stand—”
“Cool it, Mimì. They’d already filed for divorce, and she’s with a new man who wants to marry her. You couldn’t possibly give her better news. Also, bring her in to identify him.”
“But the guy’s totally unrecognizable!”
“Mimì, first of all, a woman who’s been married to a man for eighteen years will be able to identify him. Second, it’s rather in her interest to identify him, believe me.”
“All right, I’m off to the commissioner’s.”
The inspector ate lightly at Enzo’s. Skipping the pasta, he had only a few antipasti and three fried mullets. He got back to the office just after two o’clock.
“Listen, Cat, I’m going to Fiacca. I’m bringing my cell along, since I won’t be back this evening. You can give me a ring if you need me. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
As he was heading towards the parking lot, he ran into Gallo.
“I’m ready, Chief.”
“I’m going to Fiacca alone, thanks.”
“Why? Look, I’m not tired anymore! I had a good sleep last night.”
“You can drive me there tomorrow morning, all right?”
He wasted time parking the car the way he wanted in the hospital lot. He needed it to be almost hidden behind all the others, almost impossible to find. Taking his pistol out of the glove compartment, he put it in his pocket, then began the ten-minute walk to the hospital’s main entrance. When he got there, it was twenty past four. Angela was nowhere to be seen, which meant that he would have to find Fazio’s room on his own. This time, however, it was relatively easy, since the two police guards were still posted outside the sixth-floor elevator. He showed them his badge. Two other policemen stood outside the doors of the two Antimafia officials, but they weren’t the same as the previous day. He knocked lightly at the door of room 14, but nobody answered. He knocked again. Nothing. So he grabbed the doorknob and went in.
The room was empty, the bed remade. No trace of Fazio’s things anywhere. He went back out, closed the door, and approached the two policemen, badge in hand.
“I’m Inspector Montalbano. Do you know whether they’ve moved the patient from room fourteen somewhere else?”
“Yes, they have. About an hour ago. He was on a stretcher with his face all bandaged. There was a woman next to him, holding his hand.”
Montalbano felt a twinge in his heart. Want to bet Fazio had some sort of complication?
“Where’d they take him?”
“They didn’t tell us.”
All he could do was go and ask at the information desk. He took the elevator down to the ground floor.
“Listen, there was a friend of mine on the sixth floor who—” he started to say to the woman, who was a little older than him.
She cut him off.
“Are you Inspector Montalbano?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Bartolomeo is expecting you.”
“Is he serious?” Montalbano asked, starting to sweat.
“Who?”
“My friend.”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you know where they’ve taken him?”
“I repeat: I have no idea. Talk to the doctor.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Wait just a minute.”
She picked up the phone, muttered a few words, then hung up.
“Fourth floor, room two.”
Naturally, he took the wrong elevator, turned down the wrong corridor, went to the wrong room. Then, by some miracle, he knocked on the right door. Dr. Bartolomeo was about sixty, tall and elegant, with a cordial manner. Seeing the inspector come in, he stood up from behind his desk.
“How is Fazio?” Montalbano asked immediately.
“Quite well.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“Please sit down, Inspector. I’ll explain everything. A little over an hour ago, I got a phone call from Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi, who’s a friend of mine. He told me the patient was in grave danger and asked me to put him in a safe place until he could be moved to a police infirmary. And to keep the transfer as secret as possible. So I went and moved him myself. I wrapped his face so that he couldn’t be recognized, and then, with the help of his wife and the nurse watching over him—”
“The surly one?”
“Yes. They should all be like her! As I was saying, with the help of his wife and the nurse, I took him to one of the three rooms in the attic that’ll serve as guest rooms when they’re finished. The door to the attic is locked, and the nurse has the key. Can’t get any safer than that! Naturally the commissioner told me to let you know as soon as you got here.”
“Thank you, Doctor, you’re very kind. If you would explain to me how to get to the attic . . .”
“I’ll alert the nurse that you’re on your way, so she can open the door when you ring. Now let me explain how you get there. It’s very easy.”
He explained, and Montalbano didn’t understand a goddamn thing. But he felt too embarrassed to ask for further explanations, so he just thanked the doctor, said goodbye, and left.
All right, let’s think about this calmly and coolly, he said to himself. Logically speaking, “attic” means the area above the top floor. Therefore, to get to the attic, one must first reach the sixth floor in this case. That is, go where I was before.
He got there without any problem. To the sixth floor, that is. The two policemen recognized him and let him pass. But then the trouble began. After spending about half an hour exploring every corridor and opening and closing every door on the sixth floor under the increasingly suspicious gaze of the two policemen, who must have been asking themselves if this inspector was really an inspector, he had to surrender to the bitter reality: there was no staircase or elevator leading from there to the attic. He went back down to the ground floor and immediately saw Angela talking to a man. She spotted him, too, and gestured to him to wait. Then, taking leave of the man, she came towards the inspector, smiling.
“Same old story?”
“Yeah.”
“Can’t find the sixth floor?”
“Well, the fact is that . . .”
He broke off. Apparently Angela didn’t know that Fazio had been moved. And he couldn’t tell her. The fewer people knew about it, the safer Fazio would be. So how was he going to wriggle out of this? Angela herself came to his aid.
“Wait, I think I heard that Dr. Bartolomeo had him moved.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“And do you know where they moved him to?”
“I can find out. Wait just a second.”
Angela went over to the information desk, spoke with the elderly woman, then came back towards him, still smiling.
“Follow me. So, how shall we arrange things for later?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t want to be seen leaving the hospital with you.”
“What time did you say you get off work?”
“At six-thirty. I’ll be ready by six-forty-five at the latest.”
“Listen, I have an idea. I’ll give you my car keys. The license plate number is BC 342 ZX. You can leave the building on your own and get in my car. I’ll join you a few minutes later. All right?”
“All right. Here we are,” she said, stopping in front of an elevator at the end of an endless corridor. Over the door was a sign that said: OUT OF ORDER! DANGER!
“But it’s broken!” said Montalbano.
“Don’t worry, it’s not.”
She pushed a button and the door opened.
“This,” said Angela, “is the elevator that goes directly to the attic. There’s only one door on the landing. Just ring the bell. See you later.”
He rang the bell and immediately heard the voice of the Alcatraz prison guard.
“Who is it?”
“Montalbano.”
The inspector could feel himself being watched through a spy-hole. The door then opened onto a corridor.
“First door on the right,” said the prison guard. “Ten minutes.”
Fazio was no longer in bed. Dressed in some sort of pajamas and slippers, he was on a balcony with a view of the sea. His bandages had been reduced by half.
“Where’s your wife?” Montalbano asked him.
“She left just a minute ago. Would you please tell me what’s going on?”
“We had to put you in a safe place.”
“Why?”
“Did you know we found two bodies in the wells?”
“Two? The only one I knew about was the guy I threw down there myself.”
“I figured it was you who did that.”
“Yeah. Two of ’em grabbed me to throw me in, but then the guy with the gun put it down on the edge. I don’t know how I did it, but all a sudden I shoved him with all my might, and he was teetering with his body half in and half out, when he lost his balance and fell in. So I grabbed the gun. The other guy, the one with the scar, started running away. I fired at him but missed. It was terrifying, I tell you. I couldn’t remember who I was, what I was doing in that place . . .”
“We’ll talk about all that another time. So, as I was saying, when we were looking for you, we found the first body. This morning I realized it was your friend Manzella. His body had been there for at least five days.”
Fazio turned pale.
“So you think they’re going to keep trying to kill me too?”
“How can you have any doubt about it? Didn’t the guy with the scar come looking for you here at the hospital? Did you think he came just to find out how you were doing? Tomorrow or the day after, the commissioner’s going to have you moved to one of our infirmaries. That way we can all relax a little. Meanwhile, here’s this.”
The Dance of the Seagull Page 13